An attempt that failed—A resolution—A smart Shoka lad—The plucky Chanden Sing proposes to accompany me—Mansing the leper becomes my servant's servant.
THE hour fixed for my flight was 9 P.M. Five men had been induced to
follow me by the offer of a handsome reward.
At the hour appointed no single one of them had put in an appearance. I
went in search of them. One man had purposely injured his feet and was
disabled, another pretended to be dying, the others positively refused to
come. They were shivering with fright and cold.
"Kill us, sahib, if you like," they implored of me, "but we will not
follow you."
At 3 A.M. all attempts to get even one man to carry a load had proved
futile. I had to abandon the idea of starting.
My prospects became more gloomy than ever. Another march back towards the
cold and dreary pass by which I had entered Tibet!
"You are depressed, Mr. Landor," remarked the doctor.
I admitted the fact. Every step backwards was to me like a stab in the
heart. I had wished to push on at all costs, and it was only in
consideration of my good and kind friend, the doctor, that I had
reluctantly refrained from making my way by force. My blood was boiling. I felt feverish. The cowardice of my men made them absolutely contemptible, and I could not bear to see them even.
Immersed in my thoughts, I walked quickly on, and the rugged way seemed
short and easy. I found a suitable spot for our next camp. Here before
me, and on every side, stood high snowy mountains; there, in front, towered that same Lumpiya Pass by which I had crossed into Tibet with such high hopes. I detested the sight of it on the present occasion; its snowy slopes seemed to mock at my failure.
Whether it is that storms invariably come when one is depressed, or
whether one gets depressed when storms are coming, I am not here prepared
to say, but the fact remains that, before we had time to pitch our tents, the wind, which had been high all through the afternoon, increased tenfold. The clouds above were wild and threatening, and snow soon fell in feathery flakes.
"What are you going to do?" inquired the doctor of me. "I think you had
better return to Garbyang, get fresh men, and make another start."
"No, doctor. I will die rather than continue this backward march. There
will be a far better chance if I go alone, and I have resolved to start
to-night, for I am convinced that I shall find my way over the range."
"No, no, it is impossible, Mr. Landor," cried the doctor, with tears in
his eyes. "That must mean death to any one attempting it."
I told him that I was quite determined.
The poor doctor was dumbfounded. He knew that it was useless to try to
dissuade me. I went into the tent to rearrange and reduce my baggage, making a load small enough to carry on my back, in addition to the daily kit and instruments.
Whilst I was making preparations for my journey, Kachi Ram entered the
tent. He looked frightened and perplexed.
"What are you doing, sir?" inquired he hurriedly. "The doctor says you
are going to leave alone to-night, cross the mountain range, and go to
Lhassa 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. I ascertained beyond doubt that he meant
what he said, and then decided to take him.
This was a piece of luck. Kachi Ram had five bosom friends among the
young Shoka coolies. They were all friends of the Rambang, and in the
evenings in camp they often used to join and sing weird songs in honour
of the fair maids of their hearts, whom they had left on the other side
of the Himahlyas.
Kachi hurried away in a state of feverish excitement. He was back in a
few minutes.
"How many coolies will you take, sir?"
"None will come."
"Oh, I will get them. Will five do?"
"Yes," I murmured incredulously.
My scepticism sustained a shock when Kachi returned, buoyant, saying in
his peculiar English: