Treachery in Tibet (23 page)

Then the line of the Khampas was upon them. Fonthill just had time to note that it was a ragged line, showing that the cruel firing of the Lee Metfords had had its effect, before a bearded warrior lunged
at him with his sword. Simon parried desperately and slashed at the man’s face in return, missing as the Tibetan pulled away.

Damn! Don’t slash, thrust with the point – even with a sabre! The old mantra from his Sandhurst days flashed across his mind as he parried again, this time twisting his wrist to deflect his opponent’s blade away and sliding his own point along its length until, with a final lunge, it sank into the man’s stomach. He extracted the blade with a twist and swung it horizontally at the neck of the man who was flailing his sword at Jenkins. The warrior sank to the ground with a sigh, blood gushing from his half-severed head.

‘Watch out, bach. On your right!’

Fonthill just had time to twist his body out of the way of another sword thrust and he countered awkwardly, missing the man as he danced past him, only to meet the knife of a bloodstained Jenkins who, kneeling, thrust his knife into the warrior’s groin, immediately retracting it to plunge it into his stomach.

‘Are you all right, 352?’ gasped Simon.

‘Never been better, bach. Watch out. ’Ere’s another lot.’

Simon looked up and presented his sabre – already beginning to feel double its original weight – at a huge Tibetan who made the mistake of swinging his great curved sword horizontally in huge sweeps. Dropping his point, Fonthill ducked under the flashing sword and then lunged forward. The end of the sabre took the man lightly in the breast but the impetus of his charge still carried the warrior forward, so that he impaled himself completely on the sabre, until it protruded from his back.

Unable to extricate his blade, Simon collapsed under the giant so that the hilt of his sabre hit him in the chest, winding him. He thought
for a terrible moment that his adversary was still alive, for, face-to-face, as they were, it seemed as if his eyes were rolling and his teeth were clenched in a demonic grin. But his expression was a death mask and the two fell together, Fonthill underneath.

As he struggled to throw off the man, he was aware of Jenkins astride the two of them, bloodstained knife in hand, weaving from the waist like the bare-knuckle champion, Tom Sayers, but not leaving his position, parrying several sword thrusts and thrusting back adroitly.

At last Fonthill was able to squirm from under his man and struggle to his feet. ‘Get yer bloody sword, quickly,’ shouted Jenkins.

Simon did so, pulling it out just in time to meet yet another Khampa who came, this time, more circumspectly – so circumspectly, in fact, that, after three half-hearted thrusts, he turned and ran. Trying to regain his breath, Fonthill turned to find Jenkins now down on one knee, sucking in air himself.

‘Are you all right, 352?’

‘Yes. Just a bit winded. But I think they’ve got through, look you.’

Turning quickly, Fonthill saw that a small group of Khampas had broken through a gap in the Mounted Infantry line. He raised his arm and waved to where he could still glimpse the Reserve group. ‘Reserve,’ he shouted, surprising himself at the high pitch of his voice, ‘Advance and fire.’

Immediately, the muzzles of the Reserve’s Lee Metfords flashed with flame and, once again, a volley sounded by the banks of the river, and then another and another.

‘Behind you, bach,’

Jenkins’s voice again made him whirl round, to see the Welshman, now back on his feet again, catch the blade of a sword on his knife,
swing it upwards and kick his boot into the unprotected groin of the assailant. The man bent over with a groan and Jenkins, bloodstained but as agile as a monkey, danced around him and sank his bloodstained knife into the back of the Tibetan.

‘Thanks, 352.’ Simon suddenly realised that the words pitched out into what was now a comparative silence. He squinted through the smoke that drifted past him from the Reserve’s volleys and glimpsed dun-coloured figures, in twos and threes, running and limping away from the line. He turned and saw the bodies of the Khampas who had broken through the line, scattered on the ground, some moving and groaning from their wounds, but the majority lying still. Looking down the line, he saw that it now had more gaps but the men who still stood were waving their sabres and cheering.

He turned to his old comrade, ‘My God, we’ve done it, old chap. We’ve beaten ’em.’

Jenkins was grinning, but was back kneeling on one knee, blood dripping down the side of his face and from the end of his great moustache from a gash in his stubbled hair and more blood oozing from a scarlet patch on his thigh.

‘Course, we ’ave,’ the little man gasped. ‘Never doubted it. You’re the best general in the British army.’ Then, very slowly, he toppled over and lay on the ground.

Fonthill ran to his side, pulling out a handkerchief. ‘Sword wounds or bullets?’ he asked, surprised at his own coolness.

‘Ah. Only sword cuts. They just ’urt a bit when I laugh, nothin’ more.’

‘Good.’ Simon looked round. ‘Give me your first-aid kit,’ he demanded of a nearby Sikh who was wiping his sabre. ‘Quickly, now.’

Tearing away at the cloth surrounding the leg wound, which seemed the worst of the two, Fonthill dabbed a little iodine onto the open cut, pressed a felt pad onto the wound, which was now bleeding profusely and clumsily bound a bandage tightly around the thigh. ‘Lie there,’ he said. ‘Don’t get up.’

‘Oh, I was just thinkin’ of runnin’ after the enemy,’ growled Jenkins.

The words reminded Fonthill of his duty. He stood and saw a tousle-haired Ottley running towards him.

‘Glad you’re all right, sir,’ said the Irishman. ‘Congratulations. That’s the best-ordered defence I’ve ever been in, considering we were on open ground. Now, I think we’ve got enough men left to go after those bastards and the horses haven’t been hurt. Permission to pursue, sir?’

‘Very well, William. Well done. Yes, go after them. They must be taught a lesson, but don’t ride too far. Don’t pursue in more than company strength for I shall need men here in case there is another attack. Ride for say a couple of miles and then return here. We must tend to the wounded and we won’t be strong enough here to try and make it back to the column without you. Understood?’

‘Understood, sir.
Daffadar
!’

The horses were brought up, Ottley rounded up some fifty men and then rode off to where, in the far distance, the tiny figures of the remnants of the Khampas could just be seen riding and walking away.

‘I think I can stand, bach sir, if you give me an ’and, like.’ Jenkins’s voice sounded less than strong.

‘No. Sit there for a bit and get your strength back. It looks as though the bleeding from your leg and your head has stopped. But it
would be silly to take risks.’ Simon looked down at this giant of a little man, who sprawled before him. If he had ever fleetingly doubted his old friend’s capacity to fight, that doubt had disappeared completely now.

‘I don’t know how many times you have saved my life, 352,’ he said, ‘but you did it again today, several times, in fact. So, thank you once more. You remain a magnificent fighter. And you are certainly not an
old
man.’

The Welshman sat up, hands on knees, and gave a crooked smile. ‘Well, you’re a fine one to go around thankin’ people. If you ’adn’t chopped off the ’ead of that big bugger, I wouldn’t be sittin’ ’ere, look you, enjoyin’ myself so much. So I reckon that the thanks are even.’

‘All right. Now stay sitting there. I must make sure we’re looking after the other wounded. Don’t try and stand and be heroic any more. Disregard what I just said, you’re far too old for that.’

Fonthill set about the sad task of counting the dead and ensuring that the
daffadars
were tending to the wounded, as best they could, for there was no doctor with the Mounted Infantry. In all, nine had been killed and a further seventeen wounded, but only one seriously, a sword swing having almost severed his arm. Clean water was used to wash the wound and then a
daffadar
who had studied a little medicine set about sewing up the gash with needle and thread, while the Gurkha clenched his teeth and uttered not one whimper, although he did take a mouthful of brandy from Simon’s flask.

The Gurkha dead were buried by the riverbank and enough driftwood was found to burn the bodies of the three Sikhs killed, in accordance with their religion. The Khampas’ dead, numbering more than sixty, were left to lie where they had fallen, Fonthill feeling that
their bodies would deter any other hostile Tibetans in the vicinity – and, in any case, he did not wish to burden his weary troops further.

Ottley and his men rode in some three hours after they had set off, causing Fonthill to frown, for he was anxious to set off back to join the main column before night fell. They had pursued the Khampas until what was left of them had disappeared into foothills. Despite the fact that the mounts of Ottley’s men were tired, Simon insisted on moving back along the riverbank.

He arrived at the main camp just as dusk was falling, to find that Macdonald had made camp as soon as the two Mounted Infantry messengers had ridden in, setting up a defensive position by the riverbank. He listened, drawing on the inevitable cigarette, as Fonthill made his report.

‘It sounds as though you did exceedingly well, despite your comparatively heavy losses,’ he coughed.

‘We had no cover at all,’ Simon responded warmly.

‘Yes, quite so. I wasn’t sure, from what your riders said, about the size of the Tibetan force attacking you and, indeed, whether they would bypass you and come on to us. So I felt it judicious to set up a defensive position here, hoping that you would fall back on us. I couldn’t put the main column at risk, of course.’

‘No. Of course not.’ But Simon felt that the deliberate irony in his tone had escaped the Scotsman.

Fonthill had expected that Alice would be waiting for him when he rode into the camp, but there was no sign of her. He sought out the officer who had taken on the role of Major Bretherton as controller of transport and supplies.

‘Aren’t you expecting a supply train in at any time now?’ he asked.

The man shook his head. ‘No. Nor do I expect one soon. Why do you ask?’

Fonthill felt his heart sink. ‘But my wife left several days ago, probably with her young Tibetan, to go back to the cable point with one of your supply columns.’

‘Sorry, old man. We haven’t sent a column back for nearly a month. We are more or less living off the country now until we get to Lhasa – and I haven’t seen Mrs Fonthill for some time.’

Thanking him, Simon strode off to the small tented area where the correspondents were housed. The story was the same: no one had seen Alice for quite a few days now. They all suspected that she had ridden off with her young companion chasing some story or other.

It was when walking back from there that a rather embarrassed coolie stopped him and handed him Alice’s second note. ‘From memsahib again, sahib,’ he said.

Simon seized it, and when he reached the phrase
I intend to see the Tibetan high lamas and persuade them to stop this war
he threw back his head and roared with anger. The coolie hung his head and stepped back a pace. ‘When did she give you this?’ Fonthill demanded, his face white.

‘Several days ago now, sahib. I was told to wait for a week before delivering this, but I think you should have it sooner. I am sorry, sahib.’

Simon frowned and swallowed hard. ‘No. You did right,’ he said. He fumbled in his pocket, gave the man a handful of rupees, thrust the note into his pocket and strode away to find Jenkins.

He found the Welshman, newly bandaged at head and thigh, sitting in his tiny tent, drinking an inevitable cup of tea. Fonthill threw the
note to his friend and stood drumming his fingers on the tent pole as Jenkins laboriously read the message. Then 352 looked up, a slow smile spreading across his battered face.

‘You’ve got to admire the lass, bach sir,’ he said. ‘You really ’ave. Pushin’ off by ’erself – well, with old Sunshine – to end the war, all by ’erself, so to speak.’

Simon sighed and sat awkwardly on the end of Jenkins’s trestle bed. ‘Well, that’s one way of looking at it,’ he said. ‘Another way is to conclude that this is a certain way to have herself and young Sunil killed.’ He threw back his head and stared at the low canvas above. ‘Doesn’t the woman know that females are not regarded highly – if at all – in this damned country and that Lhasa is a sacred city? She is more likely to be thrown into a deep pit and left to starve as to see the bloody Dalai Lama – or Santa Claus, for that matter.’

Jenkins put his head on one side and stroked his moustache. ‘Ah now, bach. She’s cleverer than that, an’ you know it. She’s been in as many difficult situations as we ’ave an’ she’s usually got out of it on ’er own. I reckon she’ll be all right.’

A silence fell within the tent, broken only by a distant bugle call and the creaking of leather as mules were unharnessed nearby.

‘What do you propose to do now, then?’ asked Jenkins.

Simon frowned at his friend. ‘Do? Well, go after her, of course, and bring her back – if it’s not too late.’

‘Very well. I’ll come with you.’

‘Of course you won’t. You are not fit to ride.’

Jenkins sighed. ‘If you think that I’m goin’ to let you ride off after the missus on your own, then you don’t know Sergeant Major 352
Jenkins, just about the best wife-finder in the whole of bloody Tibet. Of course, I’m comin’ with you. But we shall need more than two of us.’

‘Hmm. I’m not sure about that. I’d better go and find the General – and Younghusband, for that matter. We can’t just push off on our own. Now you rest a while. I promise I won’t ride without you.’

‘I should bloody well think not.’

Alice awoke on the morning after her arrival at Chung Li’s house to hear goats bleating and, for a second, couldn’t remember where she was. Then she recalled the nature of her mission and her heart sank. Considered now, with some of the indignation that had prompted it receded, it loomed as something quixotic, with success improbable and, indeed, danger quite certain. Why the hell had she embarked on such a ridiculous journey?

Then, as she lay back on the straw-filled pillow, she recalled the sad landscape of the Tibetan bodies strewn, half frozen, after the so-called ‘battles’ and she saw again the desperate waving of Major Bretherton’s arms as the current took him away. Yes, little chance of success but, dammit, it was worth a try!

She washed with the little tablet of soap she had brought with her in the bowl of cold water provided, dressed and tentatively walked down the stairs. Chung Li was sitting by what appeared to be a peat
fire in the main sitting room but, on seeing her, he rose, bowed briefly and left the room. His wife bustled in, tongue out in greeting, and indicated that Alice should sit at the table.

Tea was produced and a kind of porridge, which was sweet and nourishing, followed by coarse bread and some form of meat dripping which was excellent. Alice thanked her and asked, ‘Sunil?’

The woman nodded and within moments Sunil had arrived to sit by her side. ‘Have you had breakfast?’ asked Alice.

‘Oh yes, memsahib. I been grooming horses.’

‘You are a splendid chap, Sunil. Thank you.’ She took a spoonful of porridge. ‘Have you had chance to talk to your uncle?’

Sunil frowned. ‘Yes, I tell him what you want. To be taken to meet the big lamas here and maybe even Dalai Lama. He say Dalai is away and not possible to see him anyway. Nobody see him. He don’t know about the boss lamas. He is going to take advice.’

Alice met his frown. ‘Hmm. I’m not sure that’s a good idea. The fewer people who know about me being here the better. But I suppose we have no choice. We are in the hands of Chung Li.’

‘Yes, miss. I think he want to help but I am not sure.’

Alice looked at him sharply. ‘Why aren’t you sure?’

Sunil lowered his eyes. He was clearly embarrassed.

‘I don’t know, memsahib,’ he said, studying the floor. ‘I have feeling …’ His voice tailed away.

‘Yes, go on.’

‘I have feeling that he don’t like British much. There are stories about us killing Tibetans on march into this country …’

Alice nodded. ‘Well, that’s certainly true. But, you see, that’s why I want to stop the fighting and persuade the lamas to sit down and
negotiate with Younghusband Sahib, so that the killing will stop. I am sure I can persuade them. Perhaps I can talk to your uncle myself?’

‘Of course, if you want. I ask when he returns.’

The old man was away for several hours, leaving Alice uncomfortable, with nothing to do but smile at the women, who smiled and bobbed at her in return. She was not at all happy that Chung Li had gone to consult someone on how to answer her request but all she could do was wait and see what would ensue.

She was in the little paddock, with Sunil, feeding the ponies when she heard a commotion in the house. Women’s voices were raised in what sounded like indignation and then she heard male voices replying in what undoubtedly were tones of authority. She hardly had time to exchange a troubled glance with Sunil before four unusually large Tibetans with long hair and with sheathed swords hanging from their belts burst through the door, followed by Chung Li’s wife and one of his daughters with tears running down their faces.

‘Khampas!’ The word came from Sunil who stood, his eyes wide, as two of the warriors roughly seized Alice, pinned her arms behind her back and pushed her towards the little gate in the paddock. Sunil shouted something to them in Tibetan, only to receive a fierce backhanded slap from one of the men, which sent him reeling to the ground.

‘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 stand 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.