Part 2

On the 14th July the expedition moved out from Gyangtse along the road to Lhasa. Grass and a glory of flowers covered the glens which led up to the Karo La. The serious fighting was over, and the second crossing of that pass was remarkable only for the fact that some rock platforms and caves had to be cleared by our panting troops at an altitude of over 19,000 feet. In the rest of the story the soldier finds little place, and the interest attaches itself to the durbars of the Commissioner and the treasure-house of natural and artistic wonders which the Mission was approaching. For after Gyangtse the resistance of the Tibetans was at an end. Half-sullenly and half-curiously they permitted our advance, delaying us a little with fruitless negotiations, while in Lhasa the game of high politics which the Dalai Lama had played was turning against him, and, like another deity, he was meditating a pilgrimage.

After the Karo La came the Yam-dok--or, as some call it, the Yu-tso or Turquoise Lake--the most wonderful natural feature of the plateau. Its curious shape, its pale blue waters, its shores of white sand fringed with dog-roses and forget-me-nots, the cloud of fable which has always brooded over it, and its august environment, make it unique among the lakes of the world. I quote a fragment of Mr. Landon's description:--

"Below lie both the outer and the inner lakes, this following with counter-indentations the in-and-out windings of the other's shore-line. The mass and colour of the purple distance is Scotland at her best--Scotland, too, in the slow drift of a slant-roofed raincloud in among the hills. At one's feet the water is like that of the Lake of Geneva. But the tattered outline of the beach, with its projecting lines of needle-rocks, its wide, white curving sandspits, its jagged islets, its precipitous spurs, and, above all, the mysterious tarns strung one beyond another into the heart of the hills, all these are the Yam-dok's own, and not another's. If you are lucky, you may see the snowy slopes of To-nang gartered by the waters, and always on the horizon are the everlasting ice-fields of the Himalayas, bitterly ringing with argent the sun and colour of the still blue lake. You will not ask for the added glories of a Tibetan sunset; the grey spin and scatter of a rain-threaded afterglow, or the tangled sweep of a thundercloud's edge against the blue, will give you all you wish, and you will have seen the finest view in all this strange land."

On the shore lies the convent of Samding, the home of the Dorje Phagmo, or pig goddess, which was jealously respected by the troops, since its abbess had nursed Chundra Dass, one of the adventurous agents of the Indian Government, when he fell sick during his travels. The present incarnation, a little girl of six, declined to reveal herself. Nothing was more satisfactory in the whole tale of the expedition than the way in which any service done at any time to a British subject, white or black, met with full recognition. Such conduct cannot have failed to have raised the prestige of the Power which showed itself so mindful of its servants. Prestige and reputation of a kind, indeed, we already possessed. Tibetan monasteries had a trick of sending their most valuable belongings to the nearest convent, for, they argued, the English do not enter nunneries or war with women.

On July 24th the expedition crossed the Khamba La and descended to the broad green valley of the Tsangpo. The crossing of that river, a work of real difficulty, was made tragic by the death of Major Bretherton, the brilliant transport officer, to whom, perhaps, more than to any other soldier, the military success in the enterprise was due. Not the least of the mysteries of Tibet was this secret stream, which the traveller, after miles of bleak upland, finds flowing among English woods and meadows. In Assam and Bengal it was the Brahmaputra; but when it entered the hills it was as unknown to civilized man as Alph or the Four Rivers of Eden. What its middle course was like and how it broke through the mountain barrier were questions which no one had answered,* nor at the time was there any accurate knowledge of its upper valleys.

* See Chapter II.

Once on the north bank Lhasa was but a short way off, and in growing excitement the expedition covered the last stages. It was one of the great moments of life, and we can all understand and envy the final hurried miles, till through the haze the eye caught the gleam of golden roofs and white terraces. The first prospect brought no disappointment. If the streets were squalid, they were set in a green plain seamed with waters; trees and gardens were everywhere; while, above, the huge Assisi-like citadel of the Potala typified the massive secrecy of generations, and the ring of dark hills reminded the onlooker that this garden ground was planted on the roof of the world.

Meanwhile the expedition set itself down outside the gates to abide the pleasure of the sullen and perturbed masters. The deity of the place had gone on a journey, no one quite knew whither. He had kept his moonlight flitting a secret, and had gone off on the northern road with Dorjieff and a small escort to claim the hospitality of his spiritual brother of Urga. He had played his impossible game with spirit and subtlety, and he had a pretty taste for romance in its ending. "When one looks for mystery in Lhasa," wrote Mr. Candler, "one's thoughts dwell solely on the Dalai Lama and the Potala. I cannot help dwelling on the flight of the thirteenth incarnation. It plunges us into mediævalism. To my mind there is no picture so engrossing in modern history as that exodus when the spiritual head of the Buddhist Church, the temporal ruler of six millions, stole out of his palace by night, and was borne away in his palanquin."

The romance which Mr. Candler saw in the Potala, Mr. Landon found most conspicuously in the church of the Jo-kang. The palace was magnificent from the outside, but within it was only a warren of small rooms and broken stairways. The great cathedral, on the other hand, was hidden away among trees and streets, so that its golden roof could only be seen from a distance, but inside it was a shrine of all that was mysterious and splendid. The contrast was allegorical of the difference between the temporal ruler of Lamaism--gaudy, tyrannical, and hollow--and the sway of the Buddhist Church, which by hidden ways and unseen agencies dominated the imagination of Asia. The Chinese Amban, having a natural desire to pay back the people who had so grossly neglected him, invited certain members of the Mission to enter this Holy of Holies. The visitors were the first white men to approach the inner sanctuary of the Buddhist faith. They were stoned on leaving the building, but the sight was one worth risking much to see. In the central shrine sat the great golden Buddha, roped with jewels, crowned with turquoise and pearl, surrounded by dim rough-hewn shapes which loomed out fitfully in the glare of the butter-lamps, while the maroon-clad monks droned their eternal chant before the silver altar. And the statue was as strange as its environment.

"For this is no ordinary presentation of the Master. The features are smooth and almost childish; beautiful they are not, but there is no need of beauty here. There is no trace of that inscrutable smile which, from Mukden to Ceylon, is inseparable from our conception of the features of the Great Teacher. Here there is nothing of the saddened smile of the Melancholia, who has known too much and has renounced it all as vanity. Here, instead, is the quiet happiness and the quick capacity for pleasure of the boy who had never yet known either pain, or disease, or death. It is Gautama as a pure and eager prince, without any thought for the morrow or care for to-day."

Mr. Landon has other pictures of almost equal charm. He takes us to the famous Ling-kor, the sacred road which encircled the town, worn with the feet of generations of men seeking salvation. We see the unclean abode of the Ragyabas, that strange unholy caste of beggar scavengers; we walk in the gardens of the Lu-kang, by the willow-fringed lake and the glades of velvet turf; and, not least, we visit the temple of the Chief Wizard, where every form of human torment is delicately portrayed in fresco and carving. But if we wish to realize the savagery at the heart of this proud theocracy, we must go with Mr. Candler to the neighbouring Depung monastery on the quest for supplies, and see the tribe of inquisitors buzzing out like angry wasps, and submitting only when the guns were trained on them. For these weeks of waiting in Lhasa were an anxious time for all concerned. Our own position was precarious in the extreme, and, had the Lhasans once realized it, impossible. Winter was approaching, the Government was urging the Mission to get its Treaty and come home, and yet day after day had to pass without result, and the Commissioner could only wait, and oppose to the obstinacy of the monks a stronger and quieter determination. Sir Francis Younghusband was indeed almost the only man in the Empire fitted for the task. "He sat through every durbar," says Mr. Candler, "a monument of patience and inflexibility, impassive as one of their own Buddhas. Priests and councillors found that appeals to his mercy were hopeless. He, too, had orders from his King to go to Lhasa; if he faltered, his life also was at stake; decapitation would await him on his return. That was the impression he purposely gave them. It curtailed palaver. How in the name of all their Buddhas were they to stop such a man?"

At last on 1st September, when after a month's diplomacy the Tibetans had only admitted two of our demands, the time came to deliver our ultimatum. The delegates were told that if all our terms were not accepted within a week, General Macdonald would consider the question of using stronger arguments. Our forbearance was justified by its results, for the opposition suddenly subsided, and we gained what we asked without any coercion. It was a diplomatic triumph of a high order, obtained in the face of difficulties which seemed to put diplomacy out of the question. The final scene came on 7th September, when in the audience chamber of the Potala the Treaty was signed by the Commissioner, and by the acting Regent, who affixed the seal of the Dalai Lama, the four Shapes, a representative of the Tsong-du, and the heads of the great monasteries. Thereafter came a limelight photograph of the gathering, and with this very modern climax the great Asian mystery became a thing of the past. The Dalai Lama had already been formally deposed, his spiritual powers were transferred to our friend the Tashe Lama, and, with the Treaty in our baggage and a real prestige in our wake, we began the homeward march.

IV

What were the results of the expedition? Geographically they appeared a little barren, for we stuck too close to the highroad to solve many of the greater mysteries. One fact of cardinal importance was established: our conception of Tibet was revolutionized, and instead of an arid plateau we learned that about one-third of it was nearly as fertile and well-watered as Kashmir. For the rest, the two most interesting expeditions were forbidden--down the Brahmaputra to Assam, and to the mountains, nine days north of Lhasa, which had formed the southern limit of Sven Hedin's exploration. One valuable expedition was, however, undertaken. Western Tibet had hitherto been the best known part of the tableland, and now our knowledge of it was linked on to the Lhasan district. On 10th October Captains Ryder, Rawling, and Wood, and Lieutenant Bailey,* with six Gurkhas, left Gyangtse, and made their way by Shigatse up the Tsangpo. They explored the river to its source, and, passing the great Manasarowar lakes, arrived at Gartok, on the Upper Indus. Thence they entered the Sutlej valley, and, crossing the Shipki Pass of over 18,000 feet, reached Simla in the first week of January 1905. Much was added also to our knowledge of the Himalaya. The fact was established that the old report of northern rivals to Everest was unfounded; and, moreover, the highest mountain in the world was seen from the northern side, where the slopes are easier, and the possibility of an attempt on it occurred to various minds--a hope which seventeen years later was realized.**

* See Chapter II.

** See Chapter IX.

On the political side the true achievement was not the formal Treaty, but the going to Lhasa. We taught the Tibetans that their mysterious capital could not be shut against our troops, and that Russian promises were less real than British performances. We showed ourselves strong, and, above all things, humane, and we earned respect, and, it would also appear, a kind of affection. When the venerable Regent solemnly blessed the Commissioner and General Macdonald for their clemency, and presented each with a golden image of Buddha--an honour rarely granted to the faithful, and never before to an unbeliever--he gave expression to the general feeling of the people.

Tibet was enveloped once more in its old seclusion--a deeper seclusion, indeed, since we guaranteed it. A final result was that we vindicated our claim to protect our subjects and those who served us. We took our Gurkhas into the forbidden land, which their native traditions had invested with a miraculous power, and showed them the truth. As for Bhutan, up to 1904 it was as obscure as Tibet and its people were strangers. They were now, in the Commissioner's phrase, "our enthusiastic allies." Their ruler in his Homburg hat joined us in the march, and acted as master of ceremonies in introducing us to the Lhasa notables.

Nearly twenty years have passed, and much water has since run under the bridges. In 1906 China adhered to the Treaty, and in 1907 came the Anglo-Russian Convention which provided for the secluding of the country by both Powers, and recognized China's suzerain rights. In 1909 the Dalai Lama, who had been restored, was ejected by Chinese troops, and in 1910 he was at Darjeeling, a refugee claiming our hospitality. Once again he was reinstated, and he has ever since been a faithful ally of Britain. At the outbreak of the Great War he offered 1,000 Tibetan troops, and informed the King that lamas through the length and breadth of Tibet were praying for the success of the British arms and for the happiness of the souls of the fallen.

Since 1904 both China and Russia have crumbled into anarchy. There is no peril to India through the eastern Himalayan passes, and the strategic importance of Tibet has dwindled. It is still a forbidden country, but it is no longer a secret one. Posts run regularly to Lhasa, and a telegraph line has been laid to that mysterious capital. But it is mysterious only by a literary convention. The true mystery is gone; the secret, such as it was, has been revealed, and the human mind can no longer play with the unknown. Childe Roland had reached the dark tower and found it not so marvellous after all. It is hard not to sympathize with Mr. Candler's plaint: "There are no more forbidden cities which men have not mapped and photographed. Our children will laugh at modern travellers' tales. They will have to turn again to Gulliver and Haroun al Raschid. And they will soon tire of these. For now that there are no real mysteries, no unknown land of dreams, where there may still be genii and mahatmas and bottle-imps, that kind of literature will be tolerated no longer. Children will be sceptical and matter-of-fact and disillusioned, and there will be no sale for fairy stories any more. But we ourselves are children. Why could we not have left at least one city out of bounds?"

These reflections do not detract from the romance of the expedition itself and the privilege of the fortunate men who shared in it. For them it was assuredly a great adventure--one which could never be repeated. It may be summed up, as Mr. Landon has summed it up, in certain famous lines from the _Odyssey_ which have not only a curious local application, but embody the true spirit of the adventure:--

"Over the tides of Ocean on they pressed, On past the great White Rock beside the stream, On, till, through God's high bastions east and west, They reached the plains with pale-starred iris dressed, And found at last the folk of whom men dream."

II

THE GORGES OF THE BRAHMAPUTRA

THE GORGES OF THE BRAHMAPUTRA

(_Map_, p. 48.)

Fifty years ago one of the questions most debated among geographers was the origin of the Brahmaputra. The great river, navigable for 800 miles from its mouth, was familiar enough in its course through the plains of India; but it flowed from the wild Abor country, and no part of the Indian borders was less known than those north-eastern foothills. Meantime in Tibet, north of the main chain of the Himalayas, there was a large river, the Tsangpo, flowing from west to east. Did the Tsangpo ultimately become the Brahmaputra, or did it flow into the Irrawadi, or even into the Yang-tse Kiang? All three views were held, but there was no evidence to decide between them.

In 1874 a native explorer, the pundit Nain Singh, started on his famous journey from Leh to Lhasa, and was instructed, if possible, to follow the Tsangpo and see where it went. He reached Lhasa, and on his return struck the Tsangpo at Tsetang, well to the east of the point where the British expedition crossed in 1904. He followed its course for thirty miles farther down, but was prevented from continuing his journey and compelled to return by the direct route to India. In 1878 another native explorer, G.M.N., seems to have followed the Tsangpo down as far as Gyala, which is not far from the point where the river turns sharply to the south, but his reports were not considered reliable. In 1884 another native, Kinthup, succeeded in following the Tsangpo to a point called Pemakochung. There he found an enormous gorge, and was compelled to make a detour out to the north and east, rejoining the stream where it entered the Abor country. Kinthup's report was of the highest interest. He had stood at the beginning of an apparently impassable gorge, and he reported a fall at Pemakochung of 150 feet. He was, however, quite illiterate and was only able to make his report from memory, and it presently appeared that the height might be only 50 feet, and that the higher fall was not in the main stream but in a small tributary. One fact, however, of the utmost importance had been established by his expedition. The Tsangpo was beyond reasonable doubt the Brahmaputra in its upper course.

The Lhasa expedition in 1904 would fain have traced the river to the plains had not the Government interposed a veto. In the years that followed, the source of the Tsangpo was discovered by Captain Rawling. In 1911 the Abor expedition increased our knowledge of the course of the Brahmaputra right up to the skirts of the main range. The problem now was not the linking up of the Tsangpo and the Brahmaputra, but what happened to the river in the hairpin bend between Pemakochung and its debouchment in the Abor valleys. The elevation of the stream at the point where the main road to Lhasa crossed it was in the neighbourhood of 12,000 feet. From there as far as Pemakochung we knew that there was no very great loss in altitude, but when the Brahmaputra appeared in the Abor foothills it was only between 1,000 and 2,000 feet above the sea. The stretch of unknown course was perhaps 200 miles, and in that section the river broke through the main range of the Himalaya. It was possible--nay, it was probable--that somewhere in those gorges, which Kinthup had thought impassable, lay hidden the most tremendous waterfall in the world.

The secret of the Brahmaputra gorges was one of the topics that most fascinated geographers between the years 1904 and 1913. In that latter year the mystery was solved, and the _ignotum_ proved not to be the _magnificum_. This is the story of the solution.

The course of the Brahmaputra through Assam is roughly from north-east to south-west, but at a place called Sadiya the main stream, there known as the Dihang, turns sharply to the north. At that point, too, it receives an important tributary on its left bank called the Dibang. During the winter of 1912-13 Captain F. M. Bailey, an officer of the Indian Political Service, was employed by the Government to survey the Dibang basin, while another party had gone through the Abor country to survey the Dihang. Early in 1913 Captain Bailey and Captain Morshead of the Royal Engineers collected what stores they could and started off from the village of Mipi on the upper waters of the Dibang. Their aim was to cross into the Dihang valley, and to follow the river upstream to the Tibetan plateau. Captain Bailey had been with the Lhasa expedition, and had had a long record of exploration in different parts of Tibet, so he had all the qualifications needed by the pioneer. But his party was imperfectly equipped, since it started more or less on the spur of the moment, and had no time to obtain proper stores from India. He trusted to the prestige won by the Abor expedition, and his experience of the ways of the Tibetans, to furnish him with coolies and local supplies.

The reader's attention is now prayed for the map. The first business was to cross the high passes separating the Dibang from the Dihang. The weather proved abominable, and for part of the route only half rations could be issued. As they descended into the valley of the Dihang they found once more cultivation and villages, and they were able to supplement their stores by shooting game, especially pheasants, which teemed by the roadside. It was necessary to establish touch with the Abor Survey party lower down the river, and accordingly they had to halt for some days. At a place called Kapu they managed to take the altitude in the river bed, and found the height above sea level to be 2,610 feet--an important result, for they were able to take no other observation at water level below the main gorges.

These foothills of the Himalaya were inhabited chiefly by savage tribes akin to the Abors, who were known generically as Lopas. But as the expedition advanced up the river they came to the country of the Pobas, who were under Tibetan influence. At Lagung, which is about the centre of the hairpin bend, the course of the river turned west. It might have been possible for them to have followed it some thirty miles farther, but they were pressed by a Poba official, with whom they made friends, to go north-east into the absolutely unknown country of Po-me, which would enable them to make a circuit and reach Gyala at the head of the gorges. Captain Bailey considered that it would be easier to explore the gorges by going downstream.