Treachery in Tibet (14 page)

‘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.

Somehow, horse and rider reached clearer ground and Fonthill realised that the cleft had opened out and he became aware that he was thundering by two large images that had been carved in semi-relief on a giant boulder and painted in scarlet and gold leaf, before he was among the retreating Tibetans. He fired his revolver into the mob, with no apparent result, and caught a glimpse of what appeared to be two Tibetan generals trying to rally their troops. But all of the Mounted Infantry were now among them and, although the horsemen were completely outnumbered by the running men, the Tibetans had lost all desire to fight and the arrival of the cavalry increased their panic.

Simon suddenly felt a revulsion at firing at men who showed no intention of defending themselves and he allowed his pony to slow to a walk and push its way along among the fleeing crowd. He saw that many of the Tibetans were now attempting to escape into a narrow valley that came in from the left, but it offered them no succour, for the Gurkhas who had cleared the sangars had now descended into it. He drew in his breath, expecting the sepoys to open fire, so creating another massacre, but it seemed that they, too, had had enough of the killing and the little men now began rounding up the Tibetans, like shepherds with sheep.

He became aware that Jenkins was at his side. ‘Good bit of gallopin’ that, bach sir,’ said the grinning Welshman. ‘You’re gettin’ better at this lark.’

‘Well, I don’t want to make a habit of it. Rough ground that. Let’s get our men to re-form. I don’t want them to go on needlessly shooting. It looks as though the day is ours.’

And so it was. Fonthill found Ottley and the mounted men
joined with the Gurkha infantry in pushing the defeated Tibetans into compliant groups and stacking their weapons into heaps. Once again, Simon searched through the rifles and muskets, finding a preponderance of the latter and only three rifles that seemed to have been made outside Tibet – and they were British.

By now, Macdonald and Younghusband had arrived with the main force and the latter ordered that the prisoners should be set to breaking up their weaponry. This the Tibetans did with glee, crashing their muskets against rocks and jumping up and down on the stocks to break them.

Fonthill rode up to where O’Connor was supervising the destruction. ‘It looks as though the poor devils had nothing much to fight with,’ he observed. ‘No wonder they didn’t hit us as we rounded that bend.’

The Captain nodded. ‘Most of this lot are just poor peasants,’ he said. ‘They tell me that they were ordered to fight by those chaps,’ he indicated a number of monks in red robes, who were looking on truculently as the weapons were destroyed. ‘If they didn’t they were told that their houses would be burnt down and their families taken from them. No wonder they are laughing.’

Most of the Tibetans were allowed to continue their retreat and about a hundred were taken as prisoners. A rough count later that day found that some 150 of the enemy had been killed and wounded, with the wounded once again being given every care and their wounds bound, much to their relief and delight. The only casualties among Macdonald’s force were among Fonthill’s Mounted Infantry, where three of his Sikhs had been wounded in that charge amongst the rocks.

Later that day, Simon found Alice. She had completed her report
and, with the ever-faithful Sunil, was sitting drinking tea.

‘At least, it wasn’t a massacre this time,’ he said, squatting beside the pair.

His wife grimaced. ‘No, but I don’t believe that figure of 150 casualties among the Tibetans. I am more or less sure that it did not contain the number who were killed when our guns and the Gurkhas fired on the sangars. We have not been back up there to count, so I have put in a figure of an estimated 200.’

‘Hmmm. Well that won’t please Younghusband and Macdonald, for sure.’

‘I don’t damn well care.’ Alice put down her cup. ‘Simon, this is a ridiculous war, if that is what you can call it. The Tibetans themselves don’t want to fight, that seems certain, so why don’t we camp our bloody great army somewhere half decent and send a message to Lhasa saying that we won’t advance further if the lamas will undertake to send their top men to parley with us about our so-called grievances?’

Simon grimaced. ‘The trouble with that is that we just can’t believe a word these monks say. If we stopped now, they would let us sit there for months and do nothing – just as they did earlier at Khamba Jong. Younghusband wouldn’t consider that for a second. What he really wants is to press on to Lhasa.’

‘Well, one thing is for sure. It looks as though Curzon was quite wrong about a Russian presence in Lhasa and about them supplying arms to the Tibetans. There’s been no evidence of that at all.’

Fonthill nodded. ‘You’re right about that, my love.’

Alice put her head in her hands and reflected for a moment. ‘Do you know,’ she said eventually, ‘I am getting really tired of riding with this damned army and standing by while it slaughters Tibetans.’ She
looked up. ‘I wish to God I could do something to stop it all.’

Simon put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You are doing your best by merely reporting what is happening. And no one can do that better. Your reporting must surely be having an affect back home.’

She nodded glumly. ‘Up to a point. There have been questions asked in the House, of course, and a debate is promised.’ She pulled a scrap of paper from within her blouse. ‘This is a cable from my editor. He has sent me a caption from a cartoon by
Punch
, published just after the Guru massacre. It says: “We are sorry to learn that the recent sudden and treacherous attack by the Tibetans on our men at Guru seriously injured the photographs that the officers were taking.”’ She threw down the cable. ‘That’s what it has come down to. Fat commentators back home making fun of all this killing. It is disgraceful.’

Tears began to trickle down her cheeks and she blew her nose violently. Simon pulled her to him.

‘I agree,’ he said. ‘But look at it this way. These two defeats that the Tibetans have suffered must surely have had some effect in Lhasa. I can’t see them standing up to us again. And there is one more thing. At the moment, Younghusband doesn’t have permission to push on to Lhasa. The resistance we’ve met may have changed the government’s mind on that point and they may well now allow him to continue his advance to the capital. Once there, it will all be over.’

Alice regarded her husband steadily. ‘There’s a lot of ifs and buts there, darling,’ she muttered. ‘And there is one other development.’ She picked up the cable. ‘Curzon has left India for home. He is not well, I understand, and has gone home on leave. What that means I don’t know.’ She sighed. ‘All I know is that we are stuck up here in
these damned mountains surrounded by dead bodies.’ She shuddered. ‘And it is damned cold.’

That night, clutching each other in their tent, Fonthill and his wife made love for the first time since the advance had begun. It was not the most satisfactory lovemaking of their matrimonial life but it made them both feel much, much better.

The expedition left what had already become known as Red Idol Gorge as quickly as it could and marched on towards what was its official destination, the town of Gyantse, the third most important in Tibet. The route was slightly and most rewardingly downhill, for Gyantse was said to be lower in altitude, at 13,000 feet, than Tuna and the column debouched onto the Gyantse Valley on 11th April. The terrain now presented a most fertile and delightful vista to eyes smarting from the grey grit and granite of Guru and Kangmar. Dotted with trees and neat buildings of white-washed stone, clustered amongst groves and well-cultivated fields, the valley was, in fact, a fertile plain, through which the River Nyang danced and glistened in the sunlight. But every eye was drawn to a dominating feature rising from the middle of the plain, like Gibraltar emerging from the western Mediterranean. This was a white fort, set about 500 feet high atop a dark rock: the citadel of Gyantse, blocking the way north to Lhasa.

Its appearance was summarised, as usual, by Jenkins. ‘Bloody ’ell,’ he muttered to Fonthill. ‘If the General wants to attack that, ’e can do it without me. I ain’t climbin’ that, look you.’

Indeed, it looked a formidable obstacle. As the column wound its way towards it from the south it appeared to be virtually impregnable, with the rock sides rising sheer. Near-to, however, it became plain that
the fort itself was set on the southern edge of a ridge that ran north and south down the centre of the plain for about a mile and a half, with the ridge descending towards the north. Behind the fort was an ancient and famous monastery, Palkor Chode, the ‘Illustrious Circle of the Religious Residence’, and sprawled at its foot was a warrenlike town, capable of housing at least 1,000 inhabitants.

The column camped on the banks of the river, less than two miles from the fort. From there, Fonthill examined the citadel with care through his field glasses. ‘This is certainly not going to be easy,’ he confided to Ottley and Jenkins. ‘If the fort is manned, then I don’t really see how we can take it, because we have no siege artillery and the garrison probably outnumber us, anyway.’