Treachery in Tibet

by John Wilcox

  Jenkins crept into the crowded tent with three mugs of tea and sat while she sat up, sipping the refreshing beverage, listening as she recounted what had happened to her.

  When she had finished, the three sat in an awkward silence. Alice broke it by exclaiming, ‘I was stupid and arrogant, thinking that I could change things. I am ashamed of myself. As a result, I caused the deaths of Sunil’s uncle, aunt and their children, that little, kind Tibetan interpreter, your own interpreter, darling, and God knows how many of those Khampa brutes.’

  Simon shook his head. ‘Well they, at least, deserved it.’ He sighed. ‘Alice, you acted, as always, with the very best of intentions and I am proud of you, as I always have been. Yes, you have been headstrong, but whatever else would I expect from you?’

  He grinned. ‘Now you just lie back and sleep awhile. We’ll let the army advance without you. I’m afraid I must go with them, to be with my chaps, but 352 will stay here with you and I will leave a troop of Mounted Infantry to make sure you’re all right and—’

  Alice interrupted vehemently. ‘Certainly not! I’m feeling fine now, after a good night’s sleep. I mustn’t miss the entry of the army into Lhasa. My editor would never forgive me. It’s the end of this bloody invasion. I must cover it. Please hand me my valise. It’s time I got into new clothes.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Fonthill held up a hand. ‘Oh, very well. But be careful you don’t bring on the bleeding again. And don’t go telling people that I’ve been knocking you about.’

  She grinned. ‘What a good idea!’

  Later, as the camp broke up and the army – all 650 British and 4,000 Indian troops of it – prepared to set off on the last day of its long crawl to Lhasa, Fonthill reported first to Macdonald and then to Younghusband. He had decided that the least said about his clashes with the Khampas and of Alice’s capture the better, so that Younghusband would not have to lie if, when he met the Tibetan rulers, the subject came up. After all, there was nobody left who had observed all these happenings, with the possible exception of the Tibetan jailer – and he was unlikely to tell his story to the lamas. He therefore related that there had been only a brush with a small band of Khampas and that Alice had never been able to reach any of the Tibetan dignitaries – which was true enough – and that she was on her way back to the army with Sunil when she had been waylaid and ill treated by brigands, before he had arrived and been able to free her. He would order his daffadar to instruct the troop to say nothing of their exploits.

  Both of the commanders had too much to do on the morning of the entry to Lhasa to question his story and so Fonthill quickly made his excuses, left Jenkins and Sunil to help Alice rejoin the other correspondents and to stay with her, while he rode forward to catch up with Ottley and the Mounted Infantry, in the van of the advance, as always.

  As the advance guard approached the village of Nethang at mid morning, it waited until the main army caught up with it so that the gaps between the various units could close up. At this late stage, no opposition to the advance was expected and none materialised. But there was now great competition amongst the British line officers to be first to catch a glimpse of the fabled city of gleaming spires and gilded roofs. That view was delayed, however, for there were rocky outcrops to be rounded and two miles of plain to be crossed before, at last, on the afternoon of August 3rd, those in the lead caught their first sight of the golden roofs of the pavilions which crowned the Dalai Lama’s Potala Palace, glinting in the strong sunlight.

  ‘You lucky chap, Fonthill,’ called out Frank O’Connor, riding up alongside Simon, ‘you must have seen all this before us in the last few days.’

  ‘Er … not really. Didn’t really enter the city, y’see.’ Simon realised that Sunil must have taken them into Lhasa by some sort of side route, avoiding the walled entrance.

  ‘Good.’ O’Connor frowned. ‘So we’re the first living Europeans to set eyes on the place. Lord.’ He fell silent for a moment. Then, ‘This is a dream come true for me. I have always yearned to ride into Lhasa one day. Now it is happening. I can hardly believe it, you know.’

  They rode forward and were joined by another group of officers and all approached an enormous whitewashed chorten, a sort of shrine containing religious antiquaries, with a gateway set within it, that stood at the intersection of two ridges, which together formed the western wall and boundary of the Forbidden City. Crowds of Tibetan peasants were now crowded around them, anxious to catch a glimpse of these pale-faced, heretical invaders.

  Here, they urged their horses up onto the ridge alongside the gate and at last the full panorama of the old city came into view, looking resplendent against the background of the encircling mountains. In fact, the dwellings of the city itself – those nondescript terraces and shacks that Fonthill had witnessed at close hand – were dominated by one building: the grand palace of the High Lama himself. Nine hundred feet long and some seventy feet higher than the cross of Christopher Wren’s St Paul’s, the Potala was dazzlingly white-walled and golden-roofed and its central building, the Dalai Lama’s residence, was painted a deep crimson. Great tumbling curtains, made of yak hair, cascaded down the sheer walls of the building, and on terraces and wide stairways hundreds of monks walked or sat sunning themselves.

  The splendour of the central palace, however, was considerably diminished by the stench which rose from the narrow streets. The observers high on the ridge could see open sewers and pools of rainwater between the shabby houses and dogs competing with ravens and pigs for whatever lay in their fetid waters.

  Fonthill turned to Ottley, who had now joined him on the ridge. ‘God!’ he exclaimed. ‘This forbidden city could do with a good airing and scrubbing.’

  The Irishman nodded. ‘We’ve come 400 miles to what is just a bloody great slum with a palace in its middle. I wonder if it’s going to be worth it.’

  ‘Yes, I wonder what the Dalai Lama thinks about it all, looking at this damned great army on his doorstep.’

  Rumour quickly spread, however, that the Dalai Lama was still very much out of town. Macdonald ordered that the army should camp just outside the city, on a plain just without the walls, and the tents had hardly been pitched before Younghusband received his first official visitors.

  The first was the Nepalese consul, who warned that there remained a contingent among the religious hierarchy who had stated that they were prepared to die rather than allow barbaric foreigners to enter the sacred city. Then, in much more style, arrived the Chinese resident or amban, carried in a sedan chair – the only person in Lhasa apart from the Dalai himself, ran the rumour, to be allowed this form of personal transport – and attended by about fifty Chinese soldiers in scarlet cloaks and carrying agricultural-looking billhooks, with not even a musket in sight.

  The amban proved to be very amiable, in fact, almost welcoming, according to Younghusband, who received him in his sombre and unornamented blue tunic of the Indian Civil Service. Later the Mission Commissioner confided to Fonthill that the amban clearly despised the backward and unsophisticated Tibetans and had been quite happy to hear of their repeated defeat by the British. Nevertheless, Younghusband took it as a great compliment that the Chinaman had paid the first visit to him, rather than the other way around, as international diplomacy demanded.

  That evening, however, a rumour spread that 7,000 monks, drawn from the three great monasteries, were preparing to fall upon the British camp, and guards were mounted. Accordingly, when it was found that two of the sepoys from the 40th Pathans had left their posts during the night, the matter was viewed with great severity and they were court-martialled and ordered to be flogged, with all of the officers and troops paraded to witness the punishment.

  Alice had joined the camp by this time and she watched the infliction of the punishment with curled lip. ‘This makes the British Raj no better than the Khampas,’ she snarled to her husband. ‘I thought this sort of thing went out with Wellington.’

  Fonthill shrugge
d his shoulders. He had long ago given up arguing these matters with his wife.

  Protocol demanded that Younghusband return the amban’s visit and the Commissioner decided that he would use the occasion to make a grand entry into the city. Macdonald, cautious as ever, advised against this as being far too dangerous, but the Colonel overrode him and entered at the head of two companies of white-faced Royal Fusiliers and two of the 8th Gurkhas, preceded, as always, by the Mounted Infantry with Fonthill leading. This time, anxious to reflect something at least of the majesty of the British Raj, Younghusband wore the full dress uniform of the Indian Political Service, a dark-blue morning coat, edged with gold embroidery and with gold epaulettes on each shoulder, patent leather court shoes with gold buckles, with a beaver skin cocked hat and wearing his dress sword.

  This would have been of little use in a fight but the dour Macdonald had taken the precaution of training his ten-pounders on the Potala and retained four companies of Sikh Pioneers outside the walls, ready to storm in should there be trouble.

  In fact, Fonthill, riding at the head of the procession – and feeling extremely dowdy in his half uniform, which was the best he could manage – worried that the fireworks, which greeted the Commissioner’s arrival at the Chinese Residency, would be mistaken by the General for an attack and that he would unleash a counter-attack. But all was quiet when the firecrackers eventually spluttered into silence.

  Only a small group of officers, which included Fonthill, was allowed into the Residency to accompany the Commissioner and they were greeted by the amban and ten of his staff. Everyone was seated on crimson silk cushions and were given tea, cheroots and Huntley & Palmer biscuits. The meeting lasted about two hours and, reported Simon to Alice later, was very cordial and interesting.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ she exclaimed, pencil poised, sitting awkwardly with the dressing on her breast still visible above her blouse, ‘but what the hell did you talk about?’

  ‘Well, mainly about the Tibetans, whom, he says, the Chinese government despises. The amban seems completely on our side – although he is a typical Chinese diplomat, urbane, even unctuous, and anxious to please. You remember them all in Peking, during the Boxer affair?’

  Alice nodded.

  ‘He says he will do all he can to help Younghusband achieve a favourable outcome to the negotiations, giving us all we want from a treaty. The trouble is …’

  ‘Yes,’ Alice leant forward eagerly.

  ‘The Dalai himself is said to be three days away in some religious retreat, twirling his prayer wheel and all that and the Tibetan government – such as it is – seems to be in a state of great confusion and everybody within it at sixes and sevens and not knowing what to do with us. The Ta Lama, who seems to be next one down after the Dalai, is in disgrace, Kalon Yuthok, the most senior of the governing Shapé, or whatever it is called, has gone sick, and although the National Assembly is in almost continuous session it is completely at odds with itself. The lamas are all as much afraid of each other as they are of us. God knows how we are going to get any sort of agreement or treaty out of them. It could be a long haul here.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Alice put down her pencil and eased the sling around her shoulder. ‘Of one thing I am assured, my love.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m just a teeny-bit tired of bloody Tibet. I’ve had enough of the weather – although I must say it’s nice enough here now – I am tired of being knocked about by these damned great Khampas, and the thought of hanging around in this smelly city while dear old Frances argues the toss about his treaty fills me with dread. I yearn for a bit of greenery. Norfolk would do nicely.’

  Simon grinned. ‘I share your feelings exactly. But won’t the Post require that you stay until the bitter end?’

  ‘It depends upon how long that bitter end is. If it goes on forever, with nothing much happening, I think my lot and most of the Fleet Street papers will withdraw their correspondents here and leave it to dear old Reuters, who will provide a damned good, bread-and-butter news service.’

  ‘Good. Well, it certainly looks to me as though armed resistance is well and truly over and that a looming great army of occupation here will not be needed. Indeed, it is the very thing that Delhi and London is frightened to death of. It must be costing the Exchequer a fortune keeping us all here. Neither government, either on the subcontinent or back home, likes spending money.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘That my all-conquering Mounted Infantry will not be needed. And, if it is, then the excellent, much-better-commander-than-me Captain Ottley can very happily take command.’

  Alice smiled. ‘Then, my love, let us pray that the Tibetans continue to pussy-foot around and we can both – all four of us – go home.’

  ‘Ah.’ Simon frowned. ‘Which raises the question of Sunil and, of course, dear old 352. What will they want to do?’

  ‘Of course. It obviously must be their decision. But, darling, I do feel responsible for both of them. Old 352 has saved your life endless times, it seems, and Sunil has certainly saved mine. One gets the feeling that 352 will be at a bit of a loose end, without mountains to fall off and warriors to fight. Will he want to go back to South Africa, do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know. And Sunil. I feel even more responsible for him. He saved my life, too, of course, and I owe him so much. He will be a bit rootless now, I should think. Should we offer to take him home to Norfolk with us? – or both of them, for that matter?’

  ‘I don’t know either. We shall just have to leave it there for the moment, my love, and let events, to some extent, take their course.’

  With virtually nothing of any significance happening and with Younghusband not anxious to be accused of bullying the Tibetan government, the Commissioner devoted himself to the task of finding himself a house of sufficient standing for a representative of the British Empire and his staff within Lhasa itself. He trailed his coat rather by intimating that the Summer Palace of the Dalai Lama would suit him admirably, but ended up accepting the offer of the unoccupied house of the First Duke in Tibet, known as Lhalu Mansion, just 1,000 yards from and looking out onto the Potala. It was commodious and allowed the officers of the military escort and of the mission a room to themselves and, great luxury, each window was glassed!

  The military escort also moved itself onto an open stretch of land know as The Plain of Wild Asses. It was a more healthy site but, more importantly, it commanded with its artillery not only Younghusband’s new home but also the Potala Palace and the great Sera Monastery. Macdonald was leaving nothing to chance. Trenches were dug and earthworks were thrown up so that the army was now settled within a veritable fortress.

  Alice and the rest of the correspondents were housed within it, so that the Fonthills’ cosy tent sharing arrangement was ended at last. Alice herself was met with a degree of good-natured joshing from her colleagues about her sad appearance, for the discoloured swelling about her eyes had not yet receded. She sighed, grinned and merely replied that it was ‘a damned good story that went all wrong’, refusing to add more. Her reputation, built over the years in the field for ferreting out exclusive reports, bolstered the response and her colleagues all sighed with relief that Alice Griffith had not this time scooped them once again.

  Not all was sweetness and light, however, between the army and the town authorities. The army’s supplies were now running low and although the Lhasa elders were told of the troops’ requirement and payment promised, nothing was forthcoming that looked like meeting the need. After five days the shortage of grain and fodder had become acute and the mules were back on half rations. Macdonald moved in and demanded 320,500 lbs of grain from the nearby Drepung Monastery’s stores. When O’Connor and a contingent of troops approached the monastery they were met by an angry crowd of monks who threatened them with stones, forcing them to withdraw.

  Macdonald responded by bringing up his artillery and telling the monks that they had one hour to provide the grain or
he would open fire on the monastery. Just as the guns were limbering up to fire, sacks of grain, tsampa and butter began to dribble out, slowly. The rest was promised within five days and the General took four of the monastery’s abbots as hostages to ensure that the promise was kept.

  Fonthill’s accommodation within the Commissioner’s headquarters had helped to renew his former semi-close relationship with Younghusband. The Colonel confided to Simon that he had now received the final draft of the agreement that he was to secure with the Tibetan government. ‘That’s all very well, old chap,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know how on earth I shall get through it for no one will accept responsibility and the Dalai Lama has bolted.’

  The terms that were to be asked of the Tibetans seemed, to Fonthill at least, to be quite onerous. The main demands were: the establishments of trade marts at Gyantse and Gartok, the latter in Western Tibet; the British occupation of the Chumbi Valley until reparations were paid; permission for the British agent in Gyantse to visit Lhasa; and – bound to be the most contentions to the Tibetans by far – the imposition of a fine, or reparations, to the Indian government to offset the cost of the expedition, the exact figure to be decided by the Commissioner ‘in the light of circumstances’, in other words, his estimation of how much the Tibetans would be able to pay.

  Younghusband was determined to stay in Lhasa, with his military escort until the agreement was signed. But the signs were by no means propitious.

  Macdonald’s brush with the monks at Drepung was not the only flaring to the surface of hostility to the British. An ugly incident occurred on 18th August when two English medical officers, Captains Kelly and Cooke-Young were leaving the camp to breakfast at Lhalu Mansion. Without warning, they were suddenly attacked from behind by a monk wielding a large sword.

  The man swung the blade and hit Cook-Young on the back of the head. The officer’s forage cap, however, took most of the force of the blow and, although being knocked to the ground, he suffered no serious injury. Kelly meanwhile had seized a rifle and bayonet from a nearby soldier and ran at the monk, thrusting the bayonet through his arm and bringing him to his knees. A second thrust penetrated his cheek and pinned the man to the ground. When the bayonet was withdrawn, however, the monk sprang to his feet and ran head down at the Captain, like a bull to a matador, bringing him down.