An Explorer's Adventures in Tibet Part 5

"What are you doing, sir?" he inquired. "The doctor says you are going to leave alone to-night, cross the mountain range, and go to Lha.s.sa by yourself."

"Yes; that is true."

"Oh, sir, the perils and dangers are too great! You cannot go."

"I know; but I am going to try."

"Oh, sir, then I will come with you."

"No, Kachi. You will suffer too much. Go back to your father and mother, now that you have the opportunity."

"No, sir; where you go, I will go. Small men never suffer. If they do, it does not matter. Only great men's sufferings are worth noticing. If you suffer, I will suffer. I will come."

Kachi's philosophy touched me. He meant what he said. I decided to take him.

This was a piece of luck. Kachi Ram had five bosom friends among the young Shoka coolies. In the evenings in camp they often joined in weird love-songs, in memory of the fair maids of their hearts whom they had left behind, on the other side of the Himahlyas.

Kachi hurried away in a state of great excitement. He was back in a few minutes.

"How many coolies will you take, sir?"

"None will come."

"Oh, I will get them," said he, with a.s.surance. "Will five do?"

"Yes," I murmured, incredulously.

My doubt sustained a shock when Kachi returned, buoyant, saying, in his peculiar English:

"Five Shokas come, sir. Then you, sir, I, sir, five coolies, sir, start night-time. What clock?"

"By Jove, Kachi," I could not help exclaiming, "you are a smart lad!"

"'Smart,' sir?" inquired he, sharply, hearing a new word. He was most anxious to learn English, and he had a mania for spelling. "'Smart!'

What is meaning? How spell?"

"S-m-a-r-t. It means 'quick, intelligent.'"

"Smart," he repeated, solemnly, as he wrote the newly acquired word into a book which I had given him for the purpose. Kachi was undoubtedly, in spite of small faults, a great character. He was a most intelligent, sharp, well-meaning fellow. His never-failing good-humor and his earnest desire to learn and to be useful were quite refreshing.

My luck seemed to have turned. A few minutes later Chanden Sing, quite unaware that any one had undertaken to accompany me, entered the tent, and exclaimed, in a disgusted manner:

"_Shoka crab, sahib! Hunya log bura crab. Hazur, hum, do admi jaldi Lha.s.sa giao._" (The Shokas are bad. The Hunyas are very bad. Your honor and I, we two alone, will go quickly by ourselves to Lha.s.sa).

Here was another plucky and useful man anxious to come. He professed to have no fear of death. How true the poor fellow's words were we will learn later.

Chanden Sing was a man of strong sporting tastes. His happiness was complete when he could fire his rifle at something, though he was never known to hit the mark. He had been severely scolded and punished only a few days before for wasting several cartridges trying to shoot _kiang_ (wild horse) three miles distant. Ordinary work, however, such as doing his own cooking or keeping my things tidy, was distasteful to him, and was invariably pa.s.sed on to others.

Mansing, the leper, being unfortunately of the same caste as Chanden Sing, became my servant's servant. The two Hindoos constantly quarrelled and fought, but at heart they were the best of friends. The bearer, by means of promises, mingled at intervals with blows, eventually succeeded in inducing his protege to join in our new expedition and face what dangers we might find ahead.

By eight o'clock in the evening I had collected all the men who had promised to follow me. They comprised my bearer, Kachi, and six coolies.

We named this camp "Devil's Camp," for diabolical indeed was the wind that shook our tents, not to speak of the snow blown into our shelters by the raging storm. During the night the wind grew in fury. Neither wood, dung, nor lichens for fuel could be found. Our tents were pitched at 16,900 feet above sea-level. To ascend to the summit of the range would mean a further climb of two thousand feet. In such weather the difficulties of the ascent were increased tenfold, though for escaping the notice of the Tibetan watchmen, who were spying our movements, we could have no better chance than on a stormy night like this. I arranged with the doctor that he was to take back to Garbyang all the baggage I had discarded and the men who had declined to follow me. He must leave all our tents pitched until the afternoon of the next day, in order to let the Tibetans suppose that we were all sheltered under them. This would give me time to make a long forced march before they could discover that I had left my tent, and could get on my track. Hard as it would be for our little party going forward, we would take no tent except the small _tente d'abri_, which weighed about four pounds. We should, in any case, be unable to pitch a tent for several days, for fear of being detected by the Tibetans. As soon as they would discover that we had left they would surely start in search of us. We should have to march long distances at night, keeping mostly on the summit of the range instead of proceeding, like ordinary travellers, along the valleys. We must get what little sleep we could during the day, when we could hide in some secluded spot. The thought of making a fire had to be abandoned because, even in the remote chance of finding fuel at the great alt.i.tudes where we were compelled to camp, every one knows that the light of a fire and a column of smoke can be seen from great distances, both in the day and at night. We had talked over all these matters before we made a start, and, moreover, we were fully aware that if the Tibetans could lay their hands upon us, we were too few to fight them, and we had little chance of escaping with our lives. In fact, taking things all round, we had come to the conclusion that our lives were worth a mere song from the moment of our leaving Devil's Camp.

With the full knowledge of what we were undertaking we may have been foolish in starting at all, but lack of determination cannot fairly be charged against us.

The thoughtful doctor had brought with him from our last camp a few lichens, with which he was now attempting to light a fire to cook me a few _chapatis_ (native flat breads of India). Alas! four hours' hard work and four entire boxes of matches failed to produce the semblance of a flame.

At midnight I sent Chanden Sing and Kachi to collect the men. Two came trembling into the tent, the others could not be roused. I went myself and took them, one by one, to their loads. All were crying like children. It was then that I discovered that in the haste and confusion I had made one load too many. Here was a dilemma! Everything was ready and propitious for our flight. A delay at this juncture was fatal. I must have another man.

The moans and groans in the coolies' tent, when I went in search of another volunteer, were pitiful. You might have thought that they were all going to die, and this was their last agony. All because of the terror of being picked out to follow me.

At last, after threats and promises, Bijesing, the Johari, was persuaded to come. But the load was too heavy for him; he would only carry half.

To save trouble, I agreed to carry the other half myself in addition to my own load.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AT NIGHT I LED MY MEN UP THE MOUNTAIN IN A FIERCE SNOW-STORM]

We put out our hurricane-lantern, and at 2 P.M., when the gale was raging at its height, driving the grit and snow like spikes into our faces, when the wind and cold seemed to penetrate with biting force to the marrow of our bones, a handful of silent men, half frozen and staggering, left the camp to face the blizzard. I ordered my men to keep close together, and we made immediately for the mountain-side, taking care to avoid the places where we supposed the Tibetan spies were posted.

We could not have selected a more suitable night for our escape. It was so dark that we could not see more than a few inches in front of us. The doctor, in sad silence, accompanied me for a couple of hundred yards. I urged him to return to the tent. He stopped to grasp my hand. In a broken voice the good man gave me his blessing, and bade me farewell.

"The dangers of your journey," whispered Dr. Wilson, "are so great and so numerous that G.o.d alone can guide you through. When I think of the cold, hunger, and hardships you will have to endure I can but tremble for you."

"Good-bye, doctor," said I.

"Good-bye," he repeated. "Good...." and his voice failed him. We parted.

Two or three steps, and the darkness separated us. His touching words of farewell rang sadly in my ears as I remembered the loyalty and thoughtfulness of this good friend.

The journey toward Lha.s.sa had recommenced in grim earnest. In a short while our ears, fingers, and toes were almost frozen, and the snow, fast-driven by the gale, beat mercilessly against our faces. Our eyes ached. We might have been blind for all we could see. Feeling our way with our feet, we proceeded speechless and exhausted, rising slowly higher and higher on the mountain-side. As we reached greater elevations it grew colder, and the wind became more piercing. Every few minutes we were compelled to halt and sit close together in order to warm ourselves and get fresh breath. The air was so rarefied that we could barely proceed under our heavy loads.

We heard a whistle and faint sounds like distant voices. My men collected round me, whispered "_Daku! daku!_" (Brigands! brigands!), and then threw themselves flat on the snow. I loaded my rifle and went ahead, trying in vain to perceive the enemy in the darkness. I screened my ear with one hand. Hark!... hark!... Yet another shrill whistle!

My Shokas were terrified. The sound seemed to come from directly in front of us. We immediately altered our course, wending our way upward slowly and steadily until we found ourselves at sunrise near the mountain-top. It was still snowing hard. One final effort brought us to the summit of the plateau.

Here we felt comparatively safe. Thoroughly exhausted, we deposited our burdens on the snow, and laid ourselves down close to one another, piling on the top of us all the available blankets in order to keep warm.

CHAPTER VIII

HUNGRY FUGITIVES

At 1 P.M. we woke up, drenched to the skin, for the sun, which had come out after the storm had abated, had thawed the thick coating of snow over us. The elevation of this camp, according to my aneroids, was 18,000 feet. The wind, from the south-east, cut like a knife, and we suffered from it, not only on this occasion, but every day during the whole time we were in Tibet. This wind began to blow with great fierceness and regularity at one o'clock every afternoon, and it was only toward eight o'clock in the evening that it sometimes abated and gradually ceased. Frequently, however, the wind, instead of dropping at this time, increased in violence, blowing with terrible force during the whole night.

As we were making ready to start again, with limbs cramped and stiff, the sky again became suddenly covered with heavy gray clouds, and fresh snow fell. There was no possibility of making a fire, so we started hungry and half frozen, following a course of 70 (b.m.). We waded up to our waists through a freezingly cold stream, and, climbing steadily higher and higher for a distance of six miles, we at last reached another and loftier plateau to the north-east of the one where we had camped in the morning. The elevation of this second plateau was 18,960 feet. I was surprised to find four lakes of considerable size close to one another on this high tableland. The sun, breaking for a moment through the clouds, shone on the snow-covered tops of the surrounding mountains, silvering the water of the lakes, and displaying before us a wild and beautiful scene.