White Mountain

by Robert Twigger

Curzon had achieved marvellous results as a young man in 1894 with an ornate seven-page vellum letter to the Amir of Afghanistan. Though the Indian government was against it, Curzon obtained an invitation to visit the Amir and was treated royally on arrival, largely due to the ‘powerful and liberal minded sovereign’ liking the flattery he received. A few years later, Curzon would describe the man as ‘cruel, vindictive and overweeningly proud’.

  In the current situation, Curzon saw Tibet as a problem that needed a solution. The British liked neat lines and clearly marked and administered borders. Tibet refused to comply. The convention signed in 1890 and the trade regulations agreed in 1893 were simply ignored. All items entering Tibet were levied with an illegal tariff. But behind all this dickering was Britain wanting to force open a new and lucrative market. When the usual tactic – securing an agreement backed by guns – failed, they needed a new strategy. Curzon wrote his letters and waited and got more and more annoyed at being ignored by the young thirteenth Dalai Lama (who nevertheless had time to ask a customs official visiting British Darjeeling to buy some artificial flowers for him).

  The humiliating lack of agreement over the exact position of the frontier, the incursions and illegal tariffs, were perhaps simply not solvable. Both India and Tibet had nomadic herders who crossed into each other’s territory – there was a reciprocal use of pastures both sides of the border. But no one would consider invading a country to settle such minor disputes.

  Curzon then discovered a grand strategical reason to invade. Russia had made contact with Tibet and perhaps had designs on extending her ever-expanding grip on Central Asia southwards.

  At this point the enigmatic Dorjiev enters the story. A Buddhist monk from Mongolia but educated in Tibet, Dorjiev understood the ways of the East rather better than Curzon. Dorjiev left Tibet as a penniless monk, albeit one who had been the instructor of the Dalai Lama; he returned as a wealthy man – backed by the government of Russia. He had also written a book in which the Czar would be the ruler of a new Buddhist empire called Shambhala, whose centre would be the Czar’s palace. The Czar had sent the Dalai Lama a set of Orthodox episcopal robes – it is often underestimated by the unreligious that religious leaders like being admitted into religions other than their own. Curzon quite forgot to send a set of cassocks from the Archbishop of Canterbury . . . and so his letters, unlike the Czar’s, went ignored.

  The evidence of Russian intrigue was circumstantial at best. It was an alibi, an excuse. Curzon knew what he wanted, and like a lot of clever but deluded men he reasoned backwards to convince both himself and, more dangerously, his masters.

  View across Sikkim, the start of the Younghusband expedition

  * Harold Nicolson, Curzon: The Last Phase

  3

  The War of the Yaks and the Zebrules

  Beat a Chinese long enough and he will talk Tibetan.

  Tibetan proverb

  In order to push the button on the invasion of Tibet, Curzon needed a casus belli. He used the capture by the Tibetans of some Indian traders to try and hasten action. He needed something more. It came with the unexpected sound of a Tibetan rattle. And a few yaks. Curzon actually wrote, ‘An overt act of hostility has taken place, Tibetan troops having, as we are now informed, attacked Nepalese yaks on the frontier and carried off many of them.’

  What really happened is that Nepalese herders entering Tibetan territory met a strong party of armed men. These men proceeded to disperse the yaks of the Nepalese using rattles. Not a very friendly thing to do, but hardly a just precursor to war.

  It tipped the balance – this telegram followed from London:

  In view of the recent conduct of the Tibetans, His Majesty’s Government feel that it would be impossible not to take action, and they accordingly sanction an advance of the Mission to Gyantse. They are clearly of opinion however that this step should not be allowed to lead to occupation or permanent intervention in Tibetan affairs in any form. The advance should be made for the sole purpose of obtaining satisfaction and as soon as reparation is obtained a withdrawal should be effected . . . His Majesty’s Government are not prepared to establish a permanent mission in Tibet . . .

  It was enough. It was 1904. The invasion was on.

  Yaks, having started the thing, would suffer immensely during the campaign. Of the 2,953 Nepalese yaks conscripted for service, 2,922 would die of aconite poisoning. Aconite grows everywhere in Sikkim – in Britain it’s called monkshood or wolfsbane and, though deadly poisonous, is used by homeopaths in minute quantities as a cure. The 31 yaks that survived the poisoning were slaughtered for food, so none survived in the end. Tibetan yaks fared a little better – they had a 78 per cent casualty rate compared to a 100 per cent one. During the winter, when the force was immobile, grazing was poor. The Tibetan casualties were due to poor food and undernourishment.

  Mules had a much higher survival rate: of 7,096 employed there were only 910 casualties. Having seen the Sikkimese yak and dzo* at first hand, as well as the mule favoured in other parts of the Himalayas, the mule comes off better. It is more sure-footed, digs up the path less and can carry 70 kilos of luggage to the yak’s 100 kilos.

  Bullocks, buffalo and pack ponies were always part of the baggage train, but by far the oddest beasts were the camels and the zebrules. All six camels – two-humped bactrians – perished in Tibet. History doesn’t record the fate of the zebrules – half-zebra, half-donkey – which were sent by the government to be tested as a new form of gun mule, supposedly hardier than the conventional mule. The men reputedly hated them: ‘They are more trouble on the march than the whole section put together. They cannot carry any load at all, and even bareback have to have men haul them up the slopes.’†

  The same soldiers of the 7th Mountain Battery who despaired of the zebrules captured two kyangs or wild asses, which they rode for sport. These two were tethered alongside quiet old mules and by osmosis became quite tame. On the way home, one had a heart attack swimming the mighty and mighty cold Tsangpo River; the other found its way to London, where it was adopted by the Royal Fusiliers as a mascot and marched through the City behind a fixed-bayonet envoy.

  But what of the manpower behind all these animals? Though Curzon was the moving spirit, the brains of the expedition all belonged, very appropriately, to Captain Francis Younghusband, while the brawn was supplied by Colonel James Macdonald of the Royal Engineers. Macdonald was the commander of the escort, Younghusband merely a passenger, a man with a mission who needed to be defended until it was delivered. Awkwardness was almost bound to develop in such a relationship, mainly because Macdonald had already shown his stripe in a similar situation when escorting Frederick Lugard out of Uganda to the coast. Standing on ceremony, forcing Lugard to sign an affidavit over who was in command, humiliating Lugard by forcing him to dine in his tent but then reading all the time while eating, Macdonald was a line-serving, deeply conservative rule-follower who lacked initiative. He was also a slippery customer, much given to using procedure and bureaucratic delay to his advantage. He wore, at all times when in the field, a pair of red rubber Wellington boots, advanced in their own way, but surely indicative of some deep personal failing.

  Younghusband by contrast was a generous-hearted, well-liked man. It wasn’t until nine months into his joint expedition with Macdonald that he made mention of the man’s faults in a letter to Curzon. This stood him in good stead, especially when Macdonald’s character became apparent – everyone likes someone long-suffering, as long as it isn’t themselves.

  As we have already seen, Younghusband had made a name for himself as a courageous and bold explorer. Now was his chance to really enter the history books.

  Sikkimese students welcome a local dignitary

  But who were the mounted infantry on whom he would have to rely? Raised in Sikkim by Macdonald – one of his better ideas – there were two companies (later three), one of Sikhs and the other made up of Gurkhas. Each company was around a hundred strong. The Sikhs had
no previous cavalry experience and the Gurkhas, coming from a place where horses can hardly travel, are not horsey folk at all. They were all mounted on pack ponies, twelve or thirteen hands – not far to fall and easy enough to ride, though these were tired beasts with loose mule girths and oversized bridles. Reportedly, the infantry were delighted to be upgraded to horseback (cavalry always trumps infantry in status – I once expressed admiration for the infantry to my grandfather – a former trooper in the Cavalry, a normally humorous and undemonstrative man; the expression of scorn on his face was not to be argued with). Issued with long serge trousers instead of riding breeches, the men were chafed terribly and the trousers had to be patched after every long ride. Eventually these were replaced before the march on Lhasa. Brushes, curry-combs, nose bands, hoof picks and head ropes arrived from Darjeeling. Riding ponies rather than old pack animals were secured and morale was high. Questing far ahead of the main body of the mission, patrolling out on the flanks, this group of smiling men were, unlike in most other conflicts of the twentieth century, able to discharge to the utmost the traditional tasks of a light horse contingent.

  They would climb high on their horses, and the climb to the passes was horrendously steep in places:

  First British soldier: I thought they told us Tibet was a fucking table-land.

  Second British soldier: So it fucking well is, you silly fucker. This is one of the fucking table-legs.

  Once they had ascended to the Tibetan Plateau, they knew the enemy would be watching for them. At times Younghusband made out thousands of Tibetan soldiers – falling back, falling back, waiting for the right moment to attack, or just watching?

  Wild asses were mistaken for enemy attackers. The kyangs, in droves of up to twenty, ‘no troop of cavalry was ever more symmetrically ranked, more precisely simultaneous in its evolutions’.‡ The kyangs executed a precise wheel round that any troop of light dragoons would have been proud of. They spread out and reformed in lines as if under orders. But it was just another mystery of the Himalayas . . . horses but no enemies atop them.

  The unopposed march ended at Tuna, where it was decided to over-winter. It was a strange choice, made perhaps because the place was deserted, and for good reason. Tuna was a hamlet with a water supply three miles out of town; it had no material advantages, no military or political significance. Macdonald didn’t like it. After a few days he came to Younghusband complaining there was not enough fuel or grass to survive. He said it was too cold. Younghusband replied (and the Indian government backed him up on this): ‘If fifty men die of cold then it would be better than retiring.’

  Then Macdonald really started to panic. He claimed they had only seven days’ rations left. Younghusband wrote,

  It was a close shave and to show what a terrible mistake it would have been to retire I may mention that a camp of 2,000 Tibetans who were six miles off our flank themselves retired on the very day that Macdonald wanted us to. We have found an inexhaustible supply of fuel and grass, enough for weeks yet.

  Watching them were thousands of Tibetans. Yet an attack seemed to Younghusband, a connoisseur of risks, to be unlikely. Mounted infantry patrols captured a Tibetan general’s cook, interrogated and then released him. A flock of Tibetan-owned sheep were taken, but handsome compensation was paid to the Tibetans. No looting would take place so long as no fighting sanctioned it, that was the message Younghusband hoped to send.

  Delegates from the Tibetan side rode quite frequently to the British perimeter. The message was always the same: the Mission must retreat to Yatung on the Tibetan border before any negotiations could take place. Macdonald actually retired back towards India to rest at a more equable altitude and climate. Tuna really was an inhospitable place. At 4,572 metres the air was thin enough to cause discomfort and hacking coughs to the Sikhs, and a detail of the Madras Sappers and Miners had to be sent back down the line to Macdonald. In all, about two hundred fighting troops remained in Tuna, facing more than ten times that number of Tibetans. The oil would freeze at night in the bolts of the rifles. Hadow, the subaltern in charge of the Maxims, used to remove the mechanism and sleep with it at night under his blankets. By day the rifles of the mounted infantry would freeze in the leather bucket where the rifle hung below the saddle. The Sikhs suffered casualties: eleven out of twelve cases of pneumonia proved fatal. Since the body had to be cremated by Sikh tradition, there was much muttering about the valuable firewood used – you cannot cremate the dead using yak dung. One Indian civilian, an employee of the postal service, was not entitled to an issue of ‘Gilgit boots’ – quilted, wool-lined boots extending above the knees; a lifesaver in such cold conditions. Without them, he died after having both feet severely frostbitten and then amputated.

  It was not all boredom and cold, however. On 13 January, the day after the first Tibetan delegation came with their message to the British, Younghusband did something that was either incredibly foolhardy or fantastically well-judged – either way, it proved he had the kind of guts, nerves and level-headedness that had allowed the British to dominate so great a part of the globe for so long. He decided to ride alone right into the Tibetan camp with only two men – a Lieutenant Sawyer and Captain O’Connor, the Tibetan translator who had parlayed the day before with the delegation. Sawyer, who was studying Tibetan, had begged to be taken along for educational purposes; Younghusband had initially thought of going alone with just his translator. O’Connor had reported that at the end of the meeting there was a hint that discussions might take place in Tuna rather than back at the border. Amplifying this hint, Younghusband had taken a chance that the time was right for a bold move. O’Connor was also a cool customer: ‘I merely remarked that it was a bit risky.’ Younghusband took no armed escort, no orderly to hold their horses. He knew and absolutely wanted to show the Tibetans that he came in peace as a logical extension of the deputation already initiated. His reading was justified thus: if people want to talk, and you talk, the fighting will always wait. Rarely do people give up the chance of a discussion they have initiated to steal a march on their interlocutor, unless they are exceptionally stealthy. Which of course the Tibetans could have been.

  A frosty morning at 4,000 metres

  The army of Tibet, or the six hundred or so encamped in Guru, a ‘miserable village’ some ten miles away, was the base of the Tibetan generals. Younghusband was riding right into the lion’s den.

  As they approached, the garrison were all out collecting yak dung for fires. No sentries were posted and no barriers erected. As they drew closer, men turned out of their stone shelters armed with broadswords, spears and matchlock rifles. No modern weaponry was on display. Nor was any aggression shown as O’Connor asked for their commander; they were met ‘not with any scowls, but laughing to each other as if we were excellent entertainment’.

  In the largest house of the village they met the Tibetan general, ‘a polite, well dressed and well-mannered man’. His other officers seemed equally genial. Younghusband shook hands all around but noted three lamas watching the proceedings with stony faces.

  What followed was a masterpiece of negotiation where the object is to get out alive. Younghusband set the scene as he received his tea by saying he was not there in an official capacity, but that he had ridden over without escort or ceremonial pomp in order to just have a chat, that they might arrive at some kind of solution to the impasse that faced them both.

  The Lhasa general spoke for the Tibetans and said that it was out of a desire to preserve their own culture and religion that they forbade foreigners from entering Tibet. Behind him, the lamas added their own more aggressive version of the same point of view. Things could only be resolved if the Mission returned to Yatung.

  Younghusband had nowhere to go now and he overplayed his hand, according to Curzon. He told the Tibetans: why so hostile to Great Britain when you have so much truck with the Russians? If you are opposed to foreigners, expel Dorjiev who carries mail between Moscow and the Dalai Lama.

 
The general and the lamas heatedly denied any commerce with the Russians. Dorjiev was a Mongol and not a Russian in any case. Younghusband then tried the pointless gambit that the British never interfered with religion wherever they went – look at India as an example of that. The lamas laughed bitterly and spoke long against this assertion. They did not mind revealing that it was their power they feared losing, not the prospect of some emasculated form of Buddhist life being allowed to prosper under British rule.

  Younghusband later wrote, Quite politely, one general said they were nothing but thieves and brigands. The monks clamoured for a date to be set for the British withdrawal. ‘The atmosphere became electric . . . one of the generals left the room; trumpets outside were sounded, and the attendants closed round behind us.’

  So far the conversation, in spite of occasional bursts from the monks, had been maintained with perfect good humour; but when I made a sign of moving, and said that I must be returning to Tuna, the monks, looking black as devils, shouted out ‘No you won’t, you’ll stop here.’

  They were seconds away from absolute disaster. Captives of the Tibetans could rot for twenty years in a Lhasa prison, or perhaps be killed outright if a frenzy took hold.

  ‘I told Captain O’Connor, though there was really no necessity to give such a warning to anyone so imperturbable, to keep his voice studiously calm, and to smile as much as he possibly could.’

  Younghusband was thinking furiously of a way out. The monks were the key, it seemed – and they had demanded a date for withdrawal. Well, he couldn’t lie – that would jeopardise any chance of further talks – but he could give a ray of hope . . .

  I said I had to obey the orders of my government just as much as they had to obey the orders of theirs; that I would ask them to report to their Government what I had said, and I would report to my Government what they had told me . . . but if the Viceroy ordered me back to India I should personally be only too thankful, as theirs was a barren and inhospitable country, and I had a wife and child in Darjeeling, whom I was anxious to see again as soon as I could.