Treachery in Tibet

by John Wilcox

  ‘Leave the boy alone,’ shouted Alice and she ducked and tore her arms away and delivered a right-handed punch to the warrior who had hit Sunil. A fierce blow to her head was her reward and, for a moment, she staggered and her ears rang with the force of the blow. Then her arms were roughly pulled behind her and this time bound.

  She turned her head but there was no sign of Chung Li and she glimpsed only the two women screaming in protest and a stricken Sunil trying to regain his feet as she was dragged through the gate into the little street.

  ‘Don’t worry, memsahib,’ she heard Sunil shout. ‘I follow.’ Then a loop was slipped over her head and body, tightened and, with one of the Khampas at the end of the rope, she was pulled through the streets, away from the house of Chung Li.

  She had difficulty keeping up with the long strides of the warriors, three of whom now surrounded her and kept pushing and prodding her to keep the pace. The suddenness of it all, the barbarity of the soldiers, contrasting so sharply with the simple kindness of Chung Li’s wife and daughters, brought a complete dryness to Alice’s throat and mouth and she felt as though her tongue had swollen. Her head was still ringing from the blow and she forced herself to keep blinking to stop tears from running down her cheeks.

  Stumbling along, being pulled by one giant warrior and closely escorted by the others, she became an object of great interest in the crowded streets, and shrouded women and high-cheeked, pigtailed Tibetan males fell away to give the party passage, a kind of hiss of … what? … interest, resentment, anger? … rising from them.

  Alice turned her head to look behind her and thought she glimpsed the hurrying figure of Sunil following but another slap made her turn back.

  A jumble of thoughts ran through her brain. Clearly Chung Li had betrayed her to the authorities. It was treachery of the basest sort, given the warm welcome that the man had extended to her and to his nephew. But then, she sighed, treachery and Tibet went together. Curzon had lied when he said that the mission to Lhasa would not be an invasion. Younghusband and Macdonald had not kept their word that the fortress at Gyantse would not be occupied by troops from the Raj. Treachery and Tibet seemed to be analogous.

  Alice was getting out of breath now and was forced occasionally to break into a pathetic trot to keep up with her long-striding captors. Her thoughts continued to race. Where were they taking her? Could it be that her request to meet the high lamas was, in fact, being answered? Highly unlikely, given the roughness of the treatment. Then she remembered Simon telling her that two Indian spies sent years ago from Delhi to Lhasa had been unmasked and thrown into a dank jail in the city without trial, where they still languished – if, that is, they were still alive. The Tibetans had a morbid fear of being spied upon. Would she be regarded as a spy? After all, she approach the sacred city in disguise. Her heart sank. What if, after all, Younghusband acceded to the Tibetans’ request and negotiated without entering Lhasa? She would be left alone and forgotten in this medieval city. Forgotten? No, of course not. There was Simon, of course, he would undoubtedly come after her. Not to mention Sunil. If he had been able to follow, he could tell Simon where she was being incarcerated. If, that is, incarceration was what was intended. Feeling the headache growing from the blow she had received and looking at the harsh, primitive faces on either side of her, she couldn’t help feeling that a gentle interrogation was highly unlikely. She sighed and fought back the tears again. Oh, what a damned silly fool she had been to embark on this quest! What sort of arrogance had made her feel that she, of all people, could make a difference to the conflict?

  She sniffed and tried to lengthen her stride.

  Alice was in no mood to look about her and note her surroundings but the thought did cross her mind that she must be the first European to enter the sacred city of Lhasa for some 200 years – and perhaps the first woman from outside Asia ever to do so. But she could catch no glimpse of the fabled temples; only rough hovels pressing in to form narrow streets.

  She was beginning to stagger with the pace she was being forced to maintain when the little party abruptly turned right and then immediately into a dark, closed doorway. The Khampa pulling the rope banged onto a door which creaked open. She was pulled through into a courtyard of beaten earth, hemmed in by stone walls, lined, high up and just under the edge of the timber roof, by a row of unglazed windows, each containing six vertical bars. A most unpleasant smell assailed Alice’s nostrils: human excrement was disgustingly definable but there was something else, less familiar. What was it – despair? Her heart sank further. A prison!

  A door was unlocked and abruptly she was thrown through into a dark cell, with light brought only by a barred, open window, set high up in the wall. Immediately, Alice turned and looked into the narrow, implacable eyes of the soldier who had pulled her through the streets.

  ‘You have the manners of a gutter rat and the face of a pockmarked weasel,’ she hissed.

  He raised his hand to hit her again but she forced herself not to duck but to remain sturdily erect, her chin thrust forward, glaring at him. He thought better of hitting her. So, instead, he kicked her in the groin.

  Alice bent in pain and staggered back before collapsing onto the stone floor. The man stood looking down on her, his face quite expressionless. Then he turned, went through the door and she heard a key turn in the lock.

  Grimacing in pain, Alice shouted, ‘That’s no way to treat a lady.’ Then she let the tears flow.

  Curled up, foetus-like, she realised that her hands were still bound behind her back. God! Were they going to leave her like this, bundled and trussed up like a turkey before Christmas? So much for the Buddhist respect for the sanctity of human life! She looked around her as best she could. There was absolutely no furniture of any kind in the room, except a pile of straw pushed into the corner, which is where, she supposed, she was expected to sleep.

  But first, to free herself of her bonds. Her hands had been tied by a length of the same rope that had been used to encircle her body. It was of a thick diameter and hemp-like, not, thank God, thin and like a tightly woven cord. She looked around the room. One of the stones in the wall projected a little and she crawled over to it and began sawing at its edge with the rope. It took her at least fifteen minutes but, eventually, the last frayed strand gave way and she could free her hands and rub her wrists.

  She stood and examined the door. It was made of heavy wood – perhaps oak – and the lock was set in the usual steel plate and looked completely impregnable. Alice thrust her hands into the pockets of her riding breeches. At least she had not been searched. What did she have that might be of use?

  Turning out her pockets, she carefully laid the contents on the floor: a handkerchief, twenty rupees, a small phial of lip rouge – ah, how useful that would be! – and a small nail file. She took the latter to the door but the sharp end did not fit into any of the four sturdy screws that held the steel plate in position and, anyway, they were rusted in and probably quite immovable. The barred window was small – only perhaps a foot long and six inches deep – and set far too high up the wall for her to reach and the cell contained nothing to stand on.

  Alice used the handkerchief to wipe away the tears that were starting to flow again. This would never do! She must never give up hope. She sat on the straw then immediately jumped up again in horror. Rats? Carefully, with the nail file she poked among the pile. Nothing, thank the Lord.

  Forcing herself to be rational, she considered her position. First of all, what assets did she have? Not exactly a storehouse: just the coins, the handkerchief, the lip rouge and the nail file, and of course the clothing she had put on that morning – bra, cotton vest, knickers, blouse, pullover, woollen socks, breeches and riding boots – and the remnants of the rope that had bound her wrists. Even knotted together it only reached perhaps three feet.

  So … could she attack her jailer and stab him with her file or perhaps garrotte him with the knotted rope? Well, she considered gravely, she might s
tand a chance if he was only four feet tall, of slight build and extremely cowardly … She sighed. The prospects were not exactly encouraging. Her only hope, of course, was that the lamas – or whoever had sent the Khampas to get her – would want to interrogate her; and this would give her a chance of talking her way out of this damned cell.

  But what if the lamas never learnt of her existence? Perhaps the Khampas, a law unto themselves, would just kill her out of hand as a spy and remove all trace of her existence? Her heart missed a beat. With a British army virtually on its doorstep, the government of Tibet would surely not take such extreme measures; after all, Simon had told her that the two Indians who had been held in captivity for so long were rumoured to be still alive. But it would be so simple for the Khampas to execute her and deny that she had ever entered their blasted sacred city, so removing the necessity of explaining her arrest and brutal treatment.

  Yet … her mind raced. There was Sunil, dear Sunil, who had called ‘I will follow’. Was it him she had glimpsed in the crowd behind as she was pulled through the streets? She couldn’t be sure. But knowing the youth, she was sure that he would feel some sort of responsibility for his uncle’s treachery. He would surely try to find out where she was incarcerated and, at the least, try and find Simon, who must now be only less than fifty miles away.

  Yes, there was still hope.

  Alice settled herself down in the straw and tried to relax. She began to feel hungry and, even more, thirsty. They surely wouldn’t let her starve to death or die of thirst here, would they? As though in answer, the key grated in the lock and a thickset Tibetan in smock and Chinese-type skullcap stepped through the door and put a wooden cup of milk and a bowl of porridge on the floor.

  ‘Wait,’ she called as he turned to go. ‘Do you speak any English?’

  He said not a word but, his face impassive – did all Tibetans take a course in face muscle control? – turned, slammed shut the door and once again the key turned in the lock.

  ‘Well thank you, anyway,’ Alice called and thirstily took deep draughts of the milk and began eating the porridge with the wooden spoon provided.

  Food and drink brought hope and she lay back in the straw and closed her eyes. The strain of the last hour or so quickly introduced sleep. She did not know how long she slept – her wristwatch she had carefully removed and left with her spare clothing in Chang Li’s house – and it was quite dark when she awoke. But what was it that woke her?

  A faint voice was calling something from far away and he or she was repeating it. She stood under the window and strained to hear it. Luckily, whoever was calling was approaching and the voice grew slightly louder but it was clear that the person calling was doing so at little above a whisper. Then it called from under the window: ‘Memsahib, are you in there?’

  Alice almost screamed in delight. ‘Yes, Sunil. I am here.’ Then, her eyes on the door, she lowered her voice. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘Oh yes, miss. I hear you. I am so glad to find you.’

  ‘Oh, Sunil, I am so glad you have. I never doubted you. I presume this is a prison I am in?’

  ‘Yes. Nasty place, I think. Have they hurt you?’

  ‘A little, but not much. I can survive. What time is it?’

  ‘I am not sure. Time when most people are asleep, I think. This busy street so I can only come after dark, when people do not walk it. I did not see where you turn earlier. So I have been walking up many streets and calling up to windows.’

  ‘You, my dear Sunil, are a jewel. Now, tell me, was it your uncle who betrayed me to the Khampas?’

  For a moment, there was no reply. Then Sunil’s voice was even lower. ‘Yes, memsahib. I am sorry. He frightened of Khampa general who is local governor where he lives. He no longer my uncle …’ his voice tailed away.

  ‘Sunil, I am so sorry. I should never have put him and you in this position. Now, listen. I have to decide what to do. Have they taken all my things?’

  ‘Yes. They know who you are, I think.’

  ‘Did they take my Webley revolver and your rifle?’

  ‘They take your revolver, but not,’ his voice lifted a tone, ‘my rifle.’

  ‘Good. Now if you go to the room where I slept, in the corner near the window, I lifted a piece of floorboard and hid in there a small handgun I had bought at the India border before we set out. With it I hid a small box containing six rounds of ammunition for it. I doubt if the soldiers would have found it. Do you think you could bring it here tomorrow night at roughly this time, tie a line to it, throw it up through the bars and lower it down to me so you don’t make a noise without anyone seeing our hearing?’

  ‘Oh, I do that for you, I am sure.’

  ‘Good boy. Do your uncle and aunt know you have been looking for me?’

  ‘I don’t know. I not been there since you been taken. I spend time looking for you.’

  Alice felt the tears come again at the boy’s loyalty, but she stifled them. ‘Good. I am most grateful. Now go back to them and don’t say that you have found me. Just say that you have spent the time looking. Do not upset your uncle, because it might be bad for you. When you come back tomorrow night, hopefully, I will have made a plan. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, memsahib.’

  ‘Thank you again for being such a brave and resourceful boy. You will be rewarded, I promise you.’

  ‘I don’t need reward. I get you out of there. You will see.’

  ‘I am sure. Now go. Thank you once more and be very careful.’

  ‘Yes, miss. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Sunil.’

  Alice blew her nose, slumped back onto the straw and wiped away the incipient tears. What a great asset this Tibetan youth had turned out to be – and what an unthinking fool she had been to put him in danger and to expect that his uncle would have helped this strange woman from an invading force!

  Now, she must think what to do. Thank goodness she had had the foresight to buy the little French handgun to back up the great clumsy Webley revolver! She had no idea of how it could be used in the prison, but it was small enough to be hidden on her person and, if the worst came to the worst, particularly if something horrible – rape or torture – threatened, she could use it to shoot her way out of the prison. But now, she must think of what to do with Sunil. He must not be placed in further danger. Sleep would help, she knew. So she lay down and closed her eyes.

  She awoke when the cell door was opened and thrown back with a clang. It was clearly quite late in the morning, for light was streaming through the high window and it illuminated the striking figure that entered and strode towards her. He was very tall – perhaps 6ft 3 ins – and he stood, hands on hips, glowering down on her as she struggled to her feet. The man wore his hair long, so that it fell about his shoulders and down his back, black as a raven’s wing. His face was Mongoloid, with narrow, slit eyes, and he effected a mandarin moustache that hung down either side of a cruel, firmly set mouth. He was dressed in a simple tunic that reached down to the top of his leather boots and a woollen cloak, woven finely with gold thread at the edges, hung from his shoulders.

  Behind him were two of the Khampa warriors who had brought her to the jail and a small, thin, elderly Tibetan wearing pince-nez spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose.

  The big man turned and grunted something to the scholarly figure.

  The small man cleared his throat and addressed Alice. ‘I shall interpret, madam,’ he said, in precise, clear English. ‘You are either Mrs Alice Fonthill or Miss Alice Griffth. Which is it?’

  ‘I am both.’ Alice spoke loudly. She felt intimidated by the delegation – particularly by the big man – but she was determined not to show it.

  The interpreter shot a quick, uneasy glance at the big man. ‘Madam. You can’t be both. Which are you?’

  ‘I repeat, I am both. I am married to Brigadier Simon Fonthill, who is serving with the British column, now approaching Lhasa, so in my private life I am Mrs Fonthi
ll. But I am also a newspaper correspondent, reporting on the … er … invasion of Tibet for The Morning Post, London for which I write under my maiden name, Alice Griffith. This situation is not unusual in Europe, I assure you.’

  The interpreter adjusted his spectacles and translated for the benefit of the big man, who was obviously a Khampa of some seniority.

  The latter frowned and fixed Alice with a glare that seemed to light up his black eyes. Then he spoke, without taking his eyes off her.

  ‘This is General Kemphis Jong,’ the little man interpreted, ‘he is general in charge of the Khampas in Tibetan army and also governor of this area of Lhasa and surrounding country. He know of your Fonthill. Your man commands British cavalry and has killed many Tibetans.’

  Alice swallowed hard. They had obviously gone through her belongings and found the notes that Simon had scribbled to her when away earlier in the campaign. It seemed that Fonthill had become rather notorious in the eyes of the Khampas.

  ‘My husband is a general in the British army,’ she said, ‘as your governor is in the Tibetan army. He is merely doing his duty. Soldiers are paid to fight. Your general knows that.’

  The General grunted when the translation was made. Then, suddenly, without warning, he struck Alice with the back of his hand, sending her sprawling onto the straw. He towered over her and shouted something.

  ‘He say,’ translated the little man, his eyes wide now behind his glasses, ‘that you here to answer questions, not to argue. You show respect or you will be hurt. Women do not answer back in Tibet.’

  Alice remained lying on the straw, her face white. ‘And men of honour do not strike women in England,’ she said defiantly, staring up at the General.

  It was clear that the interpreter considered for a moment ameliorating her response, for he paused while he sought for appropriate words, but the Khampa shouted at him to translate and the scholar gulped and did as he was told.