Treachery in Tibet (19 page)

The following day it was announced that Lieutenant Grant had been recommended for the Victoria Cross and his
havildar
the Indian Order of Merit, first class – sepoys were not eligible to receive the Cross – and the General led a small force round the back of the fort to clear out the town and the monastic complex there. No further opposition was found and it was clear that what remained of the Tibetan army and the civilian population of the Gyantse had fled along the road to Lhasa. A search of the monastery, however, revealed 3,000 pounds of
atta,
or ground flour – a much prized addition to the expedition’s dwindling food supplies. While some of the officers and men took part in strictly illegal looting of the fort, others were given the melancholic task of burying the dead.

Once again, the cost of the attack on the Tibetans was remarkably small: just three dead and seventeen wounded. And, as always, the intensity of the British firepower showed in the far greater number of
defenders killed and wounded. As F Company of the Royal Fusiliers marched up to the fort to take over guard duty there they passed ‘dead Tibetans lying in heaps’.

Ever assiduous in her reporting of the losses of both sides, Alice strode up with the Fusiliers. She stumbled upon a trench which ran the whole length of the fort and which was full of the dead defenders who must have been caught by overhead bursts of shrapnel as they sought to flee. Putting a handkerchief to her nose she carefully noted the methods used by captured prisoners to drag the dead away.

‘They tie two ropes to the heels,’ she scribbled, ‘and two men pull while a third lifts the head by the pigtail. So the corpses are carried away.’

Later, she walked to where the monastery buildings had been demolished and picked her way delicately over a line of corpses: those of warriors from the Kham country whom she identified by what Sunil had told her about their giant physiques and long hair: ‘glorious in death,’ she wrote, ‘lying as they fell with their crude weapons at their side and usually with a peaceful, patient look on their faces.’

She sent her despatch back down the line to be cabled to
The Morning Post
in London, sparing none of the details of the losses born by the Tibetans. Nor could she refrain from hinting at the breaking of the General’s orders that no looting was to be permitted either in the ruins of the monasteries or in the fort itself.

‘This expedition is becoming a disgrace,’ she confided to Simon as they sat in their tiny room in the mission headquarters. ‘The censor will probably strike out much of what I have written, but I don’t think I can stand much more of the slaughter of these peoples and the desecration that civilised men in our army – and I speak of the British, not the sepoys – are doing to sacred sites here.’

Fonthill sighed. ‘You know as well as I do, darling, that if the Tibetans continue to oppose us, there will be more killing – on both sides. And as for the pillaging, well, I suppose it is a sort of tradition in the army: the privilege of the victors, if you like. Wellington probably began it in recent times and Gordon certainly continued it in China.’

‘Privilege be damned, Simon. It’s against army law and as for any further killing by machine guns and artillery against muskets, I have got to think of some way of stopping it now. It simply can’t go on.’

‘I don’t think there is anything you can do, my love. Anyway, the good news is that Lhasa is virtually within our reach now. It’s about a 150 miles away and the rumour is that Y has received a message from India giving permission at last to march on the capital and, if necessary, to winter there and iron out a treaty with the Dalai Lama and his henchmen. I am told that there are plenty of monasteries lining the route and that we shall be able to buy grain from them and more or less live off the country, although we must give assurances that we shall not occupy them.’

‘Nor loot them, I hope!’

Alice looked affectionately at her husband. Despite the fact that he was nearing fifty, this hard-riding life with his mounted Sikhs and Gurkhas was undoubtedly suiting him. He had lost weight and his body was hard and trim; his face and the backs of his hands were burnt dark brown by the sun and wind; and, although he wore a piratical fur hat most of the time he was in the saddle, somehow his brown hair had become bleached in the thin air to a rather becoming blonde. He was – and she hugged the thought to herself – now a very handsome, middle-aged man.

Then she frowned. But had he reverted to becoming a professional soldier again: a give-no-quarter, sabre-wielding, hunter-down of
fleeing peasants? He was undoubtedly enjoying himself, as he had on the South African veldt only three years ago as he pursued those elusive Boer generals. And he was always quick to defend Younghusband and Macdonald in the face of her criticisms.

Alice sighed. Her resourceful, brave husband had always had a gentle, liberal side to him. She only hoped now that he had not lost that, here among the cold, ice-tipped mountains of Tibet.

On 14th July, under a heavy downpour that marked the beginning of the summer monsoon in India, the British force marched eastwards out of Gyentse on what everyone felt was the last lap to the Tibetan capital. Throughout the armed force, the general feeling was of hope that there would be no further attempt to delay the march by the Tibetans seeking to negotiate en route, for even the sepoys were now anxious to enter the fabled city of Lhasa.

It had been agreed between Younghusband and Macdonald that this last lap should be covered as speedily as possible, for the full column, with its supplies, could now stretch back, marching on a single-track file, a vulnerable seven miles in all. The column’s flock of sheep had become a major nuisance, slowing the marching men down as they waded through the bleating animals, so they were left to straggle behind, much to the relief of the troops who had all become heartily sick of the stringy mutton and lamb, likened to ‘piano wire’.

So it was a slimmed-down force – reduced, apart from the need for speed, by the necessity of leaving a garrison at Gyantse – that set off through the rain. Even so, it now included 91 British officers, 521 British NCOs and other ranks, 32 Indian native officers, 1,966 Indian and Nepali sepoys or riflemen, and approximately 1,500 orderlies, porters, transport drivers and other camp followers – in all, just over 4,000 men.

‘Well,’ observed Jenkins, ‘it’s got to be bloody obvious to even the most blind chink-eyed Tibbo that we mean business now. P’raps they won’t be building any more walls in the mountains to stop us.’

That proved to be a pious hope, for, scouting ahead as usual with his two companies of Mounted Infantry – now a supremely confident, grinning ragged bunch of rough riders, looking more like brigands than soldiers – Fonthill rode cautiously up to the scene of the battle at Karo La and found that the Tibetans had strengthened their old position and were manning it once more. A second wall had been built behind the first and new sangars had been erected, even higher up the mountainside than before, to protect both flanks.

Riding back to report, however, the horsemen captured a convoy of 130 loaded yaks, together with several prisoners, which put the men in even better heart than before.

Macdonald decided to attack at once and moved into the defile on 17th July, advancing on the wall and sending up his Gurkhas once more, scrambling up the mountainsides to attack the sangars. These returned but little fire this time and these key positions were abandoned, causing the main defenders of the wall to retreat without firing a shot.

‘They’ve had enough of our firepower to stand up to it again,’ said Ottley. ‘Once bitten twice shy.’

Once again it was decided, much to Fonthill’s relief, that it would be useless for the Mounted Infantry to attempt to ride down the retreating Tibetans, for it would take at least a day to dismantle both walls. So it was a leisurely army that eventually debouched from Karo La and found itself looking down on a great and remote basin, filled by an immense lake. It was found to be drinkable, not salted,
and its swampy shore was dotted by half-ruined castles from which screeching redshanks rose in protest as the troops ambled towards them. The lake’s colour was deliciously soothing to foreign eyes accustomed to the grey shale and dirty snow of the mountains.

‘It’s called Yamdrok So, or the Turquoise Lake,’ explained O’Connor to Fonthill. He pointed. ‘See the way the white sand shows through as the shore is reached and then the water deepens to that lovely half-blue half-green colour? I wouldn’t mind betting that we are the first Europeans to see this lake since the Jesuits came this way centuries ago.’

A little ahead of the lake and immediately in their path, the trail was dominated by the fort of Nagartse and here, much to everyone’s chagrin, another Tibetan delegation rode out to meet the column. Once again it was led by the Ta Lama and the still adversarial Grand Secretary. This time, however, the Gyantse team was reinforced by the Yuthok Shapé, one of the four state councillors from Lhasa.

Once again, the ceremonial rugs were laid on the floor of a large tent and hopes of the Yuthok Shapé’s placatory and conciliatory interventions winning the day were crushed by the Grand Secretary’s aggressive rejection of every point offered by Younghusband. The parley lasted for seven long hours, most of which Fonthill observed from a chair behind the Commissioner.

His main admiration during the long day was for O’Connor, who translated once again. Later, he reported to Alice.

‘It was mind-numbing,’ he said. ‘The Tibetans seem to have no idea of logic or of the niceties of diplomacy. Poor old O’Connor had to strain his ears to catch the mumblings of each delegate, who, in turn, simply repeated exactly what had been said by the previous
speaker in the delegation. It was, in effect, a low, continuous gabble with absolutely nothing new being said. It was as if the durbar at Gyantse and the attack on the fort had never taken place.’

Alice was scribbling. ‘What about Younghusband?’ she asked.

‘Oh, he sat like some implacable Bhudda, no expression crossing his face. I must say I admired his patience and courtesy. But, of course, he gave nothing away, repeating all that had been said before about the frontier transgressions and so on, and saying that we needed a new treaty, confirming a closer relationship between our two countries. It was all another waste of time. Nothing came of it at all.’

During the enforced stay at Nagartse, rumours reached the staff that Macdonald had once again written to Younghusband – written, his tent was only 200 yards from that of the Commissioner! – expressing his doubts about advancing on Lhasa and requesting confirmation of the need to do so. But Younghusband, it seemed, was firm. The mission
would
advance on Lhasa and if any opposition was offered to its passage the General would be expected to overcome it.

And so the mission plodded on, marching along the shores of the beautiful Yamdrok So, passing another dilapidated fortress before the route led them up to the Kamba La, which, at 15,400 feet, was the last pass on the road to Lhasa. Trouble was expected here but, once again, it proved to offer no obstacles, either from the Tibetans or from the weather, for the lake was already 14,400 feet above sea level and so the climb was comparatively short-lived. Below them ran the Tsangpo river, running through a valley much lusher and more fertile than any the troops had set their eyes on in Tibet.

The descent to it was as precipitous as any so far encountered, for the column was forced to march down into the valley along a zigzag
track which descended 3,000 feet in five miles. This, however, was summer and the descent lacked any of the ice-fuelled perils that the troops had met earlier.

For the first couple of 1,000 feet the march down was through the usual bleak, grey, black, rocky hillside, after which the wood line was reached, which was welcome for it meant that firewood was plentiful. Then as the troops came into the open the most glorious sight met their eyes: thick green crops through which the yellow river meandered and large prosperous-looking villages and monasteries dotted along the riverbank, offering the prospect of good grazing for the animals and grain from the holy buildings.

Even Jenkins walked along – albeit close to the cliff face – singing the praises of the view. Not so General Macdonald, whose condition had now worsened, for dysentery was now suspected and he had to be carried down the winding track in a
dhoolie
. It was whispered again that it was his indisposition that had coloured his reluctance, expressed at Nagartse, to continue the advance to Lhasa.

The Tsangpo, however, presented a different problem. It was wide, yellow-looking and turbulent and it had to be crossed. Fonthill and his horsemen ranged on ahead to secure the crossing some ten miles upstream at a place called Chaksam, ‘the Iron Bridge’, at a place where the river was at its narrowest. They were just in time to see a last load of hard-fighting Khampa warriors, the remnants of the retreating Tibetan rearguard, disembarking on the far side and crying out in derision in the heavy rain at their belated pursuers.

For the bridge, an ancient – at least six centuries old, it was rumoured – suspension affair, made of old iron chains and slats of wood, could obviously not be relied upon for a safe crossing. The
main method was clearly a ferry consisting of two large rectangular boats, each capable, thought Ottley, of holding a hundred men or at least twenty mules. But these had been left on the far northern side by the retreating Khampa soldiers.

Fonthill turned and shouted an order. At last, there was a role to be played by the four Berthon, canvas and wood, folding-boats that had been brought from India for just such an occasion as this. They were brought up and, with much shouting and jocularity, assembled on the riverbank. Then, as the last of the Khampas disappeared into the distance, the boats were crewed and rowed to the other side, while the rest of Fonthill’s men covered them from the riverbank. So the ferries were seized, but how to get them to the southern bank? Crewing them seemed to be a skilled business.