CHAPTER LX

DEATH OF THE LAST VETERAN

Studded with twinkling stars the winter sky stretched its dark-blue canopy over our lonesome camp, and 50 degrees of frost foretold a clear day. On February 4 not a cloud hovered over the mountains, and this plateau, abandoned by gods and men, which had lately been buried under the white shroud of winter, was again illumined by bright sunlight. Sad news was brought me in the morning: a horse and a mule lay dead beside the tents. With the seventeen remaining animals we continued our journey along the irregular northern shore of the Shemen-tso (16,266 feet). The quantity of snow became less, and at camp 320 the gravelly ground was almost bare. The view over the lake was grand. Captain Rawling's map of this district is executed with great accuracy.

On February 5, also, we encamped on the shore of the great lake, having followed the curves of its bays and capes. A mule died on the way. Though we had burned all we could dispense with, yet the loads were much too heavy for the surviving animals. A big strong mule always led the van, at the heels of Gulam; it carried at least two ordinary loads, and yet was fat and fresh. There was no sign of human beings. A flock of jackdaws were perched on a crag. At the camp the provisions were inspected, and we decided to relinquish three heavy sacks of rice. The rice was to be given on the following days, mixed with parched meal and water, to the animals. Of my provisions, only two boxes of tinned meat, some jam and biscuits, were left. We had not tasted meat for some time. The storm raged all day and the sun had vanished again.

On February 6 we passed a very abundant spring of water at a temperature of 46.2°, which poured into the lake. There flocks of sheep had recently drunk, and rows of cairns ran from the shore to guide antelopes into the traps in the ground. Now no game was seen except a single kiang. A mule died, and Abdul Kerim's yellow horse fell by the way. Only fourteen animals reached the camp this day, and of these my small white Ladaki was in the worst plight; he stumbled and fell, and I made a somersault over his head.

The day after, we made a short journey, left the lake and its barren shore behind us, and set up our tents amid good grass. The weather was fine; at one o'clock the temperature was 14°, and it felt as though spring had come. All the animals lay down to rest and warm themselves in the sun. Only my small Ladaki began to graze immediately; he would not die, but would follow me to the end. Wild asses and antelopes grazed on the steppe, and hares were plentiful. I was alarmed by a message that three men could be seen at some distance to the north, and the caravan bashi wished me to come and examine them through my field-glass. Apparently they were on the way to our camp. But I had plenty of time to put on my disguise. I watched them a long time, till at last they turned into three wild yaks which had been lengthened out by mirage. We had no need yet to trouble ourselves about men, but perhaps these yaks were forerunners.

Now I had ridden my small white horse for the last time. On February 8, when we continued our march east-south-east after a minimum temperature of -18.9° he followed the caravan loose and unladen, and fell even without a rider. I rode instead a grey horse from Tikze. We made barely 5 miles, but yet the journey was full of events. On the other side on a low hill stood a Pantholops antelope, which did not run away though we were quite close. We soon noticed that it was held fast and was struggling to get free. The dogs rushed at it, but a couple of men hurried on to keep them off. The animal was fast in a snare laid in an antelope track, where also we noticed fresh footprints of two men. We were evidently not far from winter hunters, who perhaps had already caught sight of us. Perhaps they had seen me, the only one riding in European dress. Perhaps it was too late to disguise myself. All my plans would then be spoiled, and all the labours of the winter lost.

But at any rate we had now fresh meat. Let us examine the ingenious trap in which the game is caught. Plates of rib bones of antelopes are firmly fixed in a ring of hard twisted vegetable fibres, which form a funnel with the points in a ditch. The antelope is enticed into the trap by a row of small cairns, and tramps about in the funnel, the plates giving way, but forming immovable impediments when he attempts to draw his hoofs out. But the snare must be held secure if it is to have the desired effect. A rope as thick as a finger is made fast in the bottom of the ditch, which is filled with water, and after freezing becomes as hard as stone. The free end of the rope forms a noose above the ring of fibres, which tightens when the animal first attempts to lift his leg and holds down the funnel of ribs. The more the poor animal jumps about, the faster is the hold of the twisted snare.

The victim was slain; the dogs ate their fill of the entrails, and the meat made ordinary loads for four men. Then we went on. At the mouth of a valley to the south were seen a sheepfold and two black specks we took for stones. Beyond a grass-grown mound we found a pool of fresh water, and we pitched the camp near it. It was not long before the Ladakis were sitting round a fire and roasting pieces of delicate, much-appreciated meat.

Now, when we were evidently in the neighbourhood of human beings, it was time for me to give directions to my people. All were summoned to my tent. I told them that we should succeed in crossing the forbidden land only by craftiness and cautiousness, and that I had made the great sacrifices which they had witnessed only to see regions where no Sahib had ever been. If our scheme were to be successful, every man must do his duty and play his part well. Whenever Tibetans put the usual questions, whence we came and whither we were going, they should answer that we were all, without exception, Ladakis, in the service of a merchant named Gulam Razul, who had sent us to Chang-tang to find out how much wool could be bought from the nomads next summer. Abdul Kerim was our leader and chief, and had to manage our affairs. He was therefore given 100 rupees for expenses, and every evening when no one could spy upon us he was to render an account to me. I myself was one of his servants, a Mohammedan named--Abdurrahman, the caravan bashi suggested--but no; Hajji Baba sounded better to me. Accordingly, when we came among Tibetans, they should never forget and call me Sahib, but only Hajji Baba. All understood the matter and promised to do their best.

A little later, Lobsang came running up and declared that the two black stones were tents. We went out and examined them through the field-glass. Quite true; smoke rose from one of them, but neither men nor animals were visible. I at once ordered Abdul Kerim, Abdul Rasak, and Kutus to go and pay for the antelope, buy anything they could, and obtain information. They soon came back again and asked if it would not be wiser to avoid the tents and march on eastwards, the more so that the inmates might be robbers. No; these men had seen us and might send a report to Rudok, and then we should be stopped. It was best, then, to enter into friendly relations with the men and lull them into security. "Bismillah," cried the three and took themselves off, while the others sat by the fire in lively conversation about the incidents of the day and the prospects of the future. It was now sixty-four days since we had left the last village in Ladak, while on the former journey we had been in solitude for eighty-one days.

After three hours my men returned. The two tents contained nine inmates--two grown-up men, two women, three girls, and two boys. The older man was named Purung Kungga, and he owned 150 sheep and 4 dogs, but no other animals. During their journey from Yildan their tents and goods were carried by sheep. They had arrived two months before, and intended to stay half a month more. The day before they had just been to look at their antelope trap, when they were alarmed at the sight of the caravan. They took it for granted that only robbers could be travelling in this district, which lay outside the haunts of honest and honourable men. The antelope had, then, been not more than an hour in the trap. Abdul Kerim paid 3 rupees for it, 3 for a sheep, and 1 for milk and butter. We could get more milk early in the morning, but we should have to send for it, for the nomads dared not come to our tents. We might have kept the antelope without compensation, for we were wayfarers and had a right to take what we found. In answer to their inquiry who we were, Abdul Kerim repeated the yarn he had just learned. The country about camp 324 is called Riochung. In one of the tents lay the hides and meat of nine antelopes. The people lived almost exclusively on the game they caught in their snares.

So far we had been fortunate. With provisions for twenty-one days instead of for seventy-five, we had struggled up to the Karakorum instead of finding a passage to the east; we had been persecuted by raging storms, biting cold, and deep snow all the way, and yet we had lighted on the first men. They were like a rock in the ocean, and now again we were to venture over the raging waves. This day found us only a few miles up a gently sloping valley filled with ice. Little Puppy was let loose and had to look after himself a bit. But he was soon tired, and lay down till Kunchuk fetched him.

February 10. The valley bottom is full of ice sheets, which we often cross after they have been strewn with sand. We wander through a labyrinth of clay hills. In an expansion to the left are seen three stone cabins and some _mani_ heaps; here is the gold placer which Rawling calls Rungma-tok, and the hunters we saw yesterday Getsa-rung. The gold-diggers come hither only in summer. The camp to-day, No. 326, is in an excellent spot, with a sandy soil, plenty of fuel, and an unfrozen brook. It is pleasant to listen to the purling water, a sign of approaching spring. East and south-east rises a wreath of lofty mountains, which we have to surmount. As long as the ground is flat and there is grass the animals do very well, but they cannot endure a high pass. My white Ladaki has picked up again, and the men are ordered to tend him carefully.

February 11. We ascend the valley, and the snow becomes deeper again. In one place are seen fresh tracks of three men. We camp behind a cliff to get shelter from the wind, but first we have to cross the ice belt in the valley bottom, where a path has been recently sanded. It is evident that we shall soon fall in with men--perhaps on the march between the two camps. Therefore I put on my new Ladaki costume with a girdle round the waist. The white turban is kept ready at hand in case we meet Tibetans. The _chapkan_ looks suspiciously clean, but Gulam undertakes to soil it with fat and soot. My soft leather vest is sacrificed and cut up for soles. After this camp Lobsang and Kutus were required to give me every evening lessons in Tibetan, and I arranged all the new words in a vocabulary, which afterwards grew to a considerable size. Thus we spent a couple of hours each day when all my literature was at an end. I especially practised the answers I was to give in case I, Hajji Baba, were subjected to cross-examination.

On the 12th we marched up through the snowdrifts in the valley, where small, graceful, elegant Goa antelopes were seen on two occasions. The camping-ground was so wretched that all the animals wandered back in the night to the former camp, and therefore the next day was lost, and we waited wearily. In my grey _chapkan_ I am too conspicuous among the other ragamuffins, and whenever I have an opportunity I smear soot and butter on it and cut holes in it here and there. A continuation of such treatment will at length make it as disreputable as the others. I also try to leave off washing my face and hands, but do not succeed in looking as dirty as my men. With them the dirt seems to be engrained and never to be removed, and they could grow potatoes under their nails. My desire was to become like them as soon as possible, that I might escape the notice of the Tibetans.

February 14. Temperature -22.9°. Again we are a few miles nearer our destination and a day nearer spring. Our progress is slow, but we must be glad that we can get along at all. Camp 329 is in the valley leading to the pass, which we have taken several days to reach. A mule is fatigued and is relieved of his load. Some grass is again found, and all the animals go out to graze, except my small Ladaki, which stands beside my tent with drooping head and icicles under his eyes. He has been weeping, knowing well that he will never be able to cross over the pass and that we shall leave him. I sit beside him for several hours, patting and stroking him, and trying to induce him to eat lumps of meal mixed with rice. He revives again and goes slowly after his comrades.

February 15. Temperature -22.5°. A hard, toilsome day. Through ice and snow among sharp detritus we march up the valley. My white horse leads the way of his own accord and I ride in the rear. We keep together for some time, and ascend step by step towards the troublesome pass. But first one and then another lags behind. Among them is my white horse. I stop and whisper in pure Swedish into his ear: "Do not lose courage; put out all your strength and climb the pass, and then you will go down in a few days to fine rich pasture." He raises his head, pricks up his ears, and gazes at me as I go on up to the pass with Kutus and Gulam. Only a couple of lively mules follow my horse and halt where he halts, at every twentieth step.

At last we came up to the flat pass, which attains to the considerable height of 18,553 feet. Here we waited a long time. The large black mule passed first over the snowy threshold of the pass and then the others, till nine baggage animals had gone by and my grey Tikze horse last. Abdul Kerim reported that four animals were thoroughly tired out. I ordered that they should be led step by step even till night if necessary, and he went down to them again. A little later appeared Tubges and Abdullah carrying two loads. One of the four animals had already departed this life.

To the west-north-west, the direction from which we had come, the view was magnificent--a sea of wild, red, gigantic undulations, with snow crowning the summits and streaming down their sides. During the last days we had noticed schists, porphyry, red and grey granite. The country was absolutely barren, and we must try to reach the nearest grass in the descending valley, but it was full of snow, and the train moved slowly and wearily through the drifts. I went on foot like the rest; every man carried a load to help the animals. All were silent, and tramped and balanced themselves in the track marked by the leader. The valley contracted to a ditch, and where the first yak-moss grew we threw down our burdens. A sorry camp in the close dismal valley. The last animals stood tied together, and were fed with pulverized yak-dung and moss mixed with meal and rice.

At dusk the other men came up leading a mule. Three animals were gone, and one of them was my small white Ladaki horse. He had struggled up to the very top of the pass, where I had sat watching for him in vain, and then had laid himself down to die. He had served me and carried me faithfully and patiently for a year and a half, and had never from the first been missing from the camping-ground, and now that the last of the veterans was gone I felt very lonely. During the whole journey he had never reached a higher spot than that whereon he died; on the very saddle of the pass his bones would be bleached by the winter storms and the summer sun. The caravan this evening was empty and forlorn, for I had lost a trusty friend. Now Brown Puppy was my consoler, for she had been with me from Srinagar, and her little whelp was the youngest and least anxious member of our struggling troop.

Two mules had crossed the pass but died in the valley. If another such pass lay in our way the caravan would perish. The loads were much too heavy for the surviving animals. A thorough weeding-out was necessary. My ulster and most of my European clothes were burned. Felt mats, tools, kitchen utensils, and spare shoes for the horses were thrown away. My small Swedish bag was burned, and all the medicines except the quinine jar were sacrificed; my European toilet necessaries, including my razors, went the same way, and only a piece of soap was kept. All European articles that were not absolutely indispensable were cast into the fire. I tore out of Fröding's poems the leaves I did not know by heart, and left the rest at the camp. The remaining matches were distributed among the men; I kept myself twenty-four boxes, which must suffice until the time when we must use only flint and steel to preserve our incognito.

Cold and sad the night spread its wings over the silent valley where our lonely camp, a picture of desolation, was buried among black cliffs and white snowdrifts, while the stars came out above like lights burning round a bier.

While the lightened loads were being placed on the animals I started on foot followed by two men. One of them, Kutus, walked beside me, and I steadied myself by his shoulder as we floundered through the drifts. The wind blew furiously, and the snow danced in spirals and appeared as white clouds on all the crags and ridges. After a march of about 3 miles we encamped when we came to grass. Snow had to be melted in pots, for the animals had been long without drink. This process did not take so long now that only eleven animals were left.

With tottering steps we continued to the east-south-east on the 17th and 18th, sometimes along valleys, sometimes over open country, and always through deep tiring snow. Camp 333 (Illust. 307) was barely made ready when a terrible storm burst over us. The sky had been clear, and then all of a sudden the pure blue colour was wiped out by orange clouds of dust which swept up from the south-west. I was sitting in the lee of my tent when in an instant the contents of the brazier were carried away. A heap of wild asses' dung which the men had collected also flew away, and we saw the small round balls dancing up the slopes as though they were racing. A herd of antelopes cantered past our camp, and their smooth coats shimmered like satin and velvet according as the hair was exposed to the wind and the light. Again our ears are filled with the din of the storm. I hurry inside, and hear from time to time a shout when some part of the men's tent threatens to give way, or the sound of iron against iron when the tent-pegs have to be driven in again, or a singing dying-away sound when my towel is seized by the blast and borne away towards the foot of the mountains. We might be on an unsound vessel with the sails flapping and beating in cracking strips, and the mountain spurs, which still peep obscurely from the mist, might be dangerous and threatening reefs, against which we are to be dashed in a moment. Grand and majestic is such a storm when it sweeps over the earth in unbridled fury.