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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Simon Fonthill
- Sprache: Englisch
1903. The British Empire has reached its probable apogee: so much of the world map is coloured red and the sun never set on its boundaries. But Lord Curzon, the ambitious Viceroy of India, has different views. Tibet, the mountainous region on the Raj's borders, irritates him: the Dalai Lama never replies to his letters and border disputes multiply. He decides to invade and recruits Simon Fonthill, veteran of so many of Queen Victoria's 'Little Wars', to lead 2000 men over the ice-bound Himalayan passes to Lhasa. Fonthill sets out on another expedition with his wife Alice, reporting for the Morning Post, and his old comrade, '352' Jenkins. It is machine guns against muskets as the cruel and brave monks, fighting on their own terrain among the clouds, oppose the invasion. When Alice is captured, treachery is revealed, and Fonthill and Jenkins must gallop to her aid in their most arduous and thrilling adventure yet.
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Seitenzahl: 502
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
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TREACHERY IN TIBET
JOHN WILCOX
For Alison – again
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
Calcutta, India. Early November 1903.
Alice Fonthill screwed up her eyes against the glare of the sun and looked about her in wonder. On her way by rickshaw from the railway station she had ridden past a succession of white, neoclassical mansions, standing amidst carefully cultivated gardens – the homes of rich Indian merchants but also the stately offices of the bureaucrats who were making the British Raj function so smoothly at the birth of this new century. Calcutta, the capital of Imperial India, had indeed become a city of European architecture and style, even if the stately houses were a gilded carapace concealing behind them the hovels of the Indians who serviced them. Yet the building at whose entrance she stood now made her jaw drop.
As befitted an experienced journalist, Alice had done her homework. Government House, she knew, had been built in the time of Governor General Wellesley, the brother of the soldier who was to become the Duke of Wellington. It had cost the East India Company £63,291 – a huge sum that had prompted the recall of Wellesley. She had read that some 700 servants were housed within it now to attend to the cares of the Viceroy and his family. As the representative in India of the King Emperor, the man deserved nothing less, of course. The pomp and power of the Empire were encapsulated in him. He demanded, no, he deserved an imperial palace.
Alice gazed at the massive stone edifice that seemed to stretch for almost a mile on either side of her, as she stood at the huge archway that guarded its entrance. She took in the tall windows that gazed down on terraces, statues, gardens and, in the semi-distance, two ornate carriages drawn by magnificent horses that waited by a side doorway, presumably at the Viceroy’s pleasure. It was the size of the thing that impressed. In truth, the building lacked elegance. It sat like some grey, stone battleship, a bit reminiscent of Buckingham Palace but without the Georgian symmetry.
She had asked to be dropped at the archway so that she could collect her thoughts before proceeding further. But now she rather regretted it, for she would be forced to walk some 200 yards at least in the hot sun down the gravelled driveway before reaching the entrance to the house itself. Tiring and rather demeaning, for Europeans rarely walked far during the day in Calcutta. And certainly not English memsahibs.
Never mind. Alice Fonthill, née Griffith, of The Morning Post, London, was never one to observe the proprieties. She adjusted her parasol slightly, hitched up her skirt and gave the giant Sikh guarding the entrance her brightest smile.
‘Good morning,’ she beamed. ‘What a lovely day! I have an appointment with the Viceroy, Lord Curzon.’ She presented to him the letter in which the Viceroy’s secretary had confirmed the appointment and waited courteously while the man looked at it, certainly more impressed by the crest at the top of the notepaper rather than its contents, for it was most unlikely that he could read. If, however, he was unimpressed by the fact that the memsahib had not been driven up in style, under the archway and through the grounds of the palace, like most of its visitors, he gave no sign.
Springing smartly to attention and saluting, he gestured down the drive. ‘Entrance to house is straight ahead, madam. You will be escorted.’ He turned and barked an order to a younger but equally resplendent Sikh, who had materialised as if by magic, and saluted again.
Alice nodded her thanks and fell in behind her escort, marvelling at his erect bearing, and the vivid colours of his sashed uniform and towering turban. As she walked, treading delicately and slowly on the gravel so as not to perspire unbecomingly, she reflected once again on the essential colourfulness of all things Indian. Not, mind you, the eternal greyness of the hills and ravines of the North-West Frontier, where she and her husband, Simon, had fought in the great Pathan Revolt some six years before, but here, in the heart of the subcontinent, where, in the cities and villages, the bazaars and streets buzzed with life and brilliance. There, long swathes of cotton and gauze were invariably draped on display in hues which sang the skills of the dyer; garishly coloured dishes – almond curd, balushahi sweetmeats, boluses of spiced mutton, gleaming piles of white rice – stirred the taste buds; the brilliant saris and salwar kameezes of the women complemented the trinkets of silver, turquoise and even gold that they inspected so contemptuously on the stalls. And the evocative smells everywhere! Even now, as she walked towards Government House, soft fragrances of tea and spices wafted towards her from the Hooghly river.
Alice folded her parasol as she and her escort reached the house itself. The young Sikh murmured something in Hindi to the equally sumptuously caparisoned soldier at the door, who stood on guard, sabre resting on his shoulder. She tried to recall how many men were in the Viceroy’s personal bodyguard – as many as 400, wasn’t it? – and then she was ushered into the blessed cool of a gigantic hallway.
Blinking to become accustomed to the shade, she caught glimpses of tall rooms gilded with marble, mahogany, gold, velvet and silk, beneath huge crystal chandeliers, before a slim, young Englishman in grey morning coat came striding towards her.
‘Ah, Miss Griffith, good morning,’ he called, as he approached, his hand outstretched. Alice paused for a moment, then realised that, of course, as a correspondent of The Morning Post, she had used her maiden name. She extended her white-gloved hand and the young man bowed low over it. ‘Willoughby, ma’am,’ he said, ‘the Viceroy’s second secretary. His Lordship is expecting you, of course. Did you have a pleasant journey?’
‘What? Oh, from Sibsagar, you mean? Yes, thank you. The worst part was getting to the town. From there, it took two days by rail, of course, but the train, though slow, was well on time. Sometimes we feel that Assam is rather a forgotten part of India, you know. We are rather remote.’
Willoughby smiled, revealing a flash of white teeth beneath his luxurious moustache. ‘Oh good gracious no. The subcontinent would be virtually nothing without its tea. And, indeed, so would England, don’tcha know. You tea growers are certainly not forgotten here in Calcutta, ma’am, I assure you of that.’
As they chatted inconsequentially, the secretary led her through what seemed like a succession of marbled halls and Alice was conscious of turbanned attendants, their white robes slashed diagonally with scarlet sashes, bowing low like automatons from nooks and crannies as they passed. Eventually, they came to a cool, smaller anteroom and Willoughby gestured to a low couch, sumptuously cushioned in cream velvet.
‘Do take a seat, Miss Griffith,’ he said. ‘His Lordship is detained by a … ahem … rather unexpected Indian visitor at the moment, but he is aware that you are here. He won’t keep you a moment. I won’t offer you tea, because I know that the Viceroy will like to receive that with you, but would you care for, say, a little lemon juice while you wait?’
Alice smiled gratefully. ‘Oh, that would be ideal. Thank you.’
As Willoughby departed – he seemed to glide, rather than walk, she noted – Alice settled back in the cushions and sought in her handbag for her powder compact. She was glad to have a moment to herself before she met Curzon. Aware of the man’s reputation for aloofness and his typical politician’s dislike of the press, she remained surprised that he had so seemingly readily agreed to her request for an interview. She had put it down to the reputation of her newspaper as a solid supporter of the reigning Tory government back home and, perhaps … she smiled immodestly at the thought … at the fame that she and her husband had garnered over the years from their adventures throughout the Empire. Simon Fonthill had gained a following, not altogether welcomed by him, as a result of his exploits as a quite irregular army scout over the last three decades, while the redcoats of the Queen had pushed back boundaries all over the world. He had been appointed a Companion of the Order of the Bath after penetrating the Mahdi’s lines at Khartoum and had risen to acting Brigadier General in the recent war against the Boers in South Africa, gaining a Distinguished Service Order. And his adventures had been shared and reported upon by his wife.
But Alice’s smile broadened slightly as a possible other reason for the ease with which she seemed to have gained admission to the Viceroy’s guilded presence reoccurred to her. Despite his reputation for reclusion and pomposity, Curzon, she had heard, was not above casting his eye upon a pretty face. Oh, as a married man to an American heiress now for some eight years, no hint of scandal had been attached to him. But, as a titled and handsome bachelor, his predilection for female company had become well known and his mistresses were legion.
Alice now, then, looked at herself critically in the small mirror of her powder compact. As a woman forging her career in the distinctly masculine world of journalism – she was not the only female war correspondent in London’s Fleet Street, but distaff competitors were few – she had never been averse to using her looks to help her get ahead. The face that frowned back at her now from the small oval glass was no longer young, alas. But, she had to admit that, at nearing fifty, maturity had dealt her no harsh blows.
Her cheekbones were high and clear cut, her mouth full, her eyes of a rather challenging grey and the skin which most women of her age would have carefully protected from the sun with cream and powder, now glowed back at her with a sheen that reflected her outdoor life: unfashionable but by no means unattractive. Her hair betrayed only the faintest of grey streaks and remained lustrously fair. In fact, if it had not been for a rather squareness of jaw that betrayed determination, Alice Griffith could still have qualified as a beautiful woman.
Nevertheless, her frown remained as she dabbed onto her cheeks just a touch of powder to tone down that ridiculously healthy glow. Interviewing Lord Curzon of Kedleston, Viceroy of India, was not going to be easy – not with the questions and radical views she intended to put to him, anyway. She would need all the help she could get.
Alice was well aware that, beneath the notoriously haughty and supreme confidence exuded by the man, there lurked a scholar, a politician of conviction and a person whose knowledge of Central Asia and the trouble spots of the Middle and Far East was probably unsurpassed in the corridors of Westminster. His precocity had been marked when, while still at Oxford, his speeches in the Union there had been quoted in Parliament. A life-long Conservative, he had entered the Commons in 1886 by winning the seat of Southport in Lancashire. He first visited India in the following year and then had travelled twice round the world and been published extensively. In the nineties he had journeyed 2,000 miles alone on horseback in Persia and later, on his way to stay with the Amir of Afghanistan, no less, he had climbed to an altitude of 14,000 feet, up to the plateau of the Pamirs, to visit the hidden valley of Hunza. Now, however, it seemed that those cold eyes of his were fixed on the strange, lost world of Tibet – and Alice was here to find out why.
She snapped the compact shut and gratefully accepted the tinkling glass of iced lemonade presented to her. She was stealing a quick look at her notes when a cough announced that Willoughby had returned.
‘So sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Griffith,’ he announced. ‘The Viceroy has managed to … er … get rid of his unannounced visitor and is looking forward to seeing you now. Do let me take your lemonade in for you.’
Ah, thought Alice. Young man, you will go far …!
She entered a much larger room that had all the grace and elegance of those that had preceded it and, as she did so, a tall, matchingly elegant man rose to greet her from behind the desk at its far end. He advanced towards her with hand extended, walking stiffly erect, as though on parade. Alice remembered that an accident in his youth had injured his spine, so leaving him in intermittent pain and forcing him to wear at all times a steel-braced corset. This, she knew, had helped to bequeath him the reputation of being lordly and condescending – perhaps undeservedly?
As Curzon bowed over her hand, Alice gave him the curtsy that was owed to him as the Queen’s representative in this huge land and looked up into his face. It was, as she had been led to expect, undoubtedly handsome. Some four years younger than she, the Viceroy too had worn well, despite the pain of his injury. His fair hair had now receded somewhat and had been brushed back severely to reveal the noblest and most scholastic of brows. His cheekbones matched hers in their sharpness and his lips were chiselled, giving his face a lean and sensitive appearance. The reputation for haughtiness, she reflected quickly, was obviously enhanced by eyes of an indeterminate colour that seemed cold and unreceptive, belying the warmth of his smile.
‘Mrs Fonthill.’ His voice was mellifluous, of course, but quite grave and formal in tone. Then: ‘Oh, but perhaps I shouldn’t address you so. Are you Miss Griffith today?’
Alice produced her best smile once again. ‘It really doesn’t matter, Lord Curzon. It really is rather flattering for this married woman to be able to revert to … what shall I say … my maiden status, whenever she wants to.’ (Dammit. The unintended double entendre made her sound coquettish. Far too early to play that card!)
She hid her momentary embarrassment with a cough. ‘But perhaps, as I am here as a correspondent for The Morning Post, Miss Griffith would be most appropriate.’
‘As you wish, dear lady. When I received your letter I realised that I had been reading with interest and admiration your despatches from various parts of the Empire for some years now and it is a pleasure to meet you at last.’ He had retained her hand and she now withdrew it very slowly, perhaps even a little languorously. She had played this game before.
‘Oh, that is more than kind of you, Your Excellency. And I am most grateful to you for sparing the time in what I am sure is a very busy day.’
He waved a dismissive hand. ‘I am happy to be of whatever assistance to you that I can. Now, do come and sit down. Would you care for tea? Good gracious, of course you would. You and your husband now grow it, of course. You must drink it. Assam, I presume?’
Alice settled herself on a low divan before what was obviously a golden-gilt-covered French table of some antiquity. ‘I must confess,’ she smiled, as though sharing a guilty confidence, ‘that I much prefer Darjeeling, if you have any, although it does seem rather traitorous.’
‘So do I, as a matter of fact.’ He strode to his desk and tinkled a small bell that sat on it. ‘Chai,’ he called to a white-liveried orderly who responded. ‘Darjeeling. Quickly, now.’
The man bowed and retreated. The curt tone used by Curzon brought to Alice’s mind the by now famous ditty that one of his contemporaries at Oxford had composed about him:
My name is George Nathaniel Curzon,
I am a most superior person.
My cheek is pink, my hair is sleek,
I dine at Blenheim once a week.
She hid an irreverent grin. Yes, there was no doubt about it. His cheek was undoubtedly pink!
The tea was poured: the best Darjeeling, of course, with that distinctive coppery colour, so popular now in the salons of Europe. Alice savoured it with pleasure. But the Viceroy was speaking now, with that fluidity and speed that had earned him a reputation as an orator of supreme confidence and style.
‘I see that you are growing your tea in Northern Assam, very much up in the hills, by the look of it. I was surprised to hear that, after Fonthill’s distinguished war against the Boers, he had taken up this most pastoral of occupations. The two of you have shown such great energy and enterprise in all your activities on the periphery of Empire that I might imagine that tea growing in Assam would be perhaps … what shall I say … perhaps a little boring? N’est-ce pas?’
Alice sipped her tea. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it is, rather, although the work is proving rather hard and we have had a few problems with the Naga tribesmen, who live in the hills just east of our patch.’
‘Ah yes. I have had some reports of that. You must tell me if things get worse. I know that Kitchener would be happy to despatch a troop of Gurkhas down from Darjeeling to sort them out.’
‘Thank you, but I think Simon can handle it. Lord Kitchener, of course. He has more or less recently joined you as commander-in-chief, I believe. Neither Simon nor I knew him in the Sudan on the Gordon mission – he was only a major in intelligence then, if I remember rightly – but Simon, in particular, got to know him very well in South Africa. A most brilliant soldier, of course …?’
It was hardly put as a question but Alice had heard that, after a honeymoon period, the great soldier and the great imperialist were no longer on equable terms and she was not above a little probing into the matter.
Curzon did not rise to the bait. ‘Oh, yes, of course. We are lucky to have him. Now, I am sorry that I did not know of your arrival in Assam. I would certainly have sent you both an invitation to dine at Government House. You must forgive me. How long have you been there?’
Alice waved aside the apology languidly. ‘Not so very long. In fact, little more than a year. After the Boer armistice, we hurried back to our small estate in Norfolk to oversee our farming activities there. But,’ she shrugged her shoulders, ‘I’m afraid neither of us are cut out to spend our lives peacefully in the English countryside. I was anxious to resume writing again for the Post – there is little to write about in dear old Norfolk – and Simon was itching to try something new. So’ – she sighed – ‘we bought this small tea estate in Assam, which had been allowed to run down, and Simon has had his hands full there ever since.’
She raised the cup to her lips again. ‘Perhaps I have been the happier of the two because there has been plenty to write about in India—’
‘Ah,’ he interrupted, ‘you must forgive me. My duties here have meant that I have not been quite so assiduous a follower of your work as I was in London. And the Post arrives here so dashed late, you know, that the pot has boiled long before I get to take the lid off, so to speak.’
‘Of course. You are forgiven, sir. But I am detaining you far too long with tittle-tattle about the Fonthills. If I may, Lord Curzon, I would like to discuss this Tibetan affair with you and seek your guidance in terms of analysing what is going on there and how the matter could develop.’
Curzon’s face tightened for a moment. Then he raised an elegant eyebrow and smiled coldly. ‘Having noticed over the years how your … er … rather radical views of matters concerning the Empire have been presented with great skill within the more traditional Tory editorial policies followed by the Post, I doubt whether I myself will be influential at all in helping you to report on the Tibetan problem. But, be assured that I shall try. Now do fire away.’ He leant back in his chair, crossed one white silk-stockinged leg over the other – it seemed he always wore ceremonial dress during the day – and waved for her to begin.
Alice fumbled in her small bag and produced pencil and notebook. ‘Thank you, Viceroy. But please be assured that my story will be written as a straightforward report, not an opinion piece. Not a leader, of course.’
‘I understand. And so …’ He leant forward, ‘you would presumably have no objection if I cast an eye over it before you cable it? Just, of course,’ he added hurriedly, ‘so that I might be in a position to correct what might be the odd inaccuracies which can, I know, creep into the most carefully written pieces.’
Summoning what she hoped was a beguiling smile, Alice shook her head gently. ‘I am afraid not, sir. It is not the policy of our newspaper to allow stories to be censored, so to speak. I fear that you must trust me.’
‘Very well. Now, do please begin.’
Alice took a deep breath. ‘Do you intend to invade Tibet?’
Curzon feigned deep astonishment. ‘Good gracious no! Whatever made you think that?’
Scribbling away, Alice looked up. ‘Because for some months now you have had a diplomatic mission – guarded by a military escort of remarkable size considering that the Tibetans are not a militaristic race – sitting over the border half a day’s march into Tibet at a place called Khamba Jong. I understand that the Tibetans have consistently refused to negotiate with the mission and that it and its escort is now being withdrawn back into India and that a considerable number of troops is being assembled near the border, presumably with aggressive intents towards Tibet? Why?’
The Viceroy, seemingly unperturbed, raised two hands defensively. ‘Most of what you say is true. What is not true is the assumption that you draw from the facts.’
‘Then why, pray, assemble the troops? What have the Tibetans done to harm India or the Raj?’
‘Ah.’ He pressed the fingertips of both hands together and tapped them, in a meditative mode. ‘We must go back a little in time, Miss Griffith, so that you understand the background.’
‘Please do.’
‘Very well. You will know that I have travelled extensively through these parts in the past and talked with a good many rulers long before I took up this position in Calcutta?’
Alice nodded, pencil poised.
‘In fact, I may say – if a trifle immodestly – that, in addition to being the youngest viceroy to be posted here, I believe that I am almost certainly the best equipped, in terms of having studied the history of the region and its problems, both from the perspective of the British government in London and from my many discussions on the ground with people of influence throughout the subcontinent and its neighbours.’
Ah, thought Alice, now the man’s conceit is beginning to reveal itself! But she nodded slowly again and said, ‘Of course. I would certainly be prepared, sir, to concede that.’
‘Very good of you, madam, I am sure. Now,’ he leant forward, ‘from all my studies and conversations, I have formed a firm conclusion that Russia has intentions towards Tibet, if not aggressive militarily, then certainly so in diplomatic terms.’
Alice frowned. ‘But surely Tibet is a vassal state of China, and Russia would certainly not attempt to upset the Manchu Empire?’
‘Oh, I am not speaking of direct invasion. But there is plenty of circumstantial evidence that Russia is attempting to turn Tibet against us. The Tsar’s emissaries are to be seen frequently in Lhasa, I am informed, and more and more stories are reaching me that Moscow is beginning to arm Tibet. There is even a manufacturing plant being set up in Lhasa, I am told, to produce Russian rifles there.’
‘Why should Russia do all this?’
‘Because it covets India and wants a route through to this country. As you know, Cossacks have left a trail of havoc over the decades riding through Central Asia towards the Indian North-West frontier. They’ve taken the Russian double-headed eagle right up to the northern frontier of Afghanistan. We have called their bluff there and there they have stopped. Now, it is my conviction that they are seeking to find another way in. Tibet is under only a rather lacklustre form of suzerainty from Peking and I sense that the Russians see an opportunity there.’
Scribbling away, Alice spoke without looking up. ‘So what do you propose to do about it?’
‘Well, I intend to put a stop to their little game. We must persuade the Dalai Lama to open up his country to us to counterbalance the Russian threat.’
Alice put her pencil to her mouth. ‘As I understand it, the Tibetans do not wish to establish formal relations with their neighbours. For instance, I have read that the last – and so far only – Englishman to reach Lhasa was in 1811. Their religion promotes a way of life that is contemplative and quite self-contained. China more or less leaves them alone to toddle along in what is virtually a medieval form of living. How would you change this?’
‘Well, certainly not by a heavy-handed invasion. But we do have genuine grievances against the Tibetans, you know. In 1890, a Sikkim–Tibet Convention was concluded with China, whose suzerainty over Tibet we have always recognised. It was followed four years later by a set of trade regulations. The main purpose of these instruments, as far as we were concerned, was to secure formal Chinese recognition of our paramount rights in Sikkim, bordering Tibet, but they also dealt with matters of commerce, frontier delineation, etc. More tea?’
‘No, thank you.’
Cuzon dabbed at his nose with a handkerchief clearly woven from the finest Egyptian cotton and leant back to ease his vertebrae. ‘You see,’ he continued, wincing slightly, ‘the Tibetans have never formally ratified that treaty. They have just gone on their merry way, ignoring it completely. As a result, grazing rights at the border have been infringed, trade obstructed, boundary pillars overthrown and an illegal tariff imposed on the trickle of goods imported from India.
‘The states that border Tibet – Bhutan, Sikkim and Nepal – are important to us. We, of course, recruit our Gurkhas from Nepal and the other two enjoy an autonomy which is underwritten by treaties with the British government. We are very sensitive to any encroachments by Tibet on these countries. We do not wish even the thinnest end of the wedge to be inserted here.’
Alice nodded. ‘I understand that, but surely Tibet is not really a threat, is it? As I understand it, it is not exactly an aggressive country. On the contrary, in fact.’
Curzon frowned and a slight trace of irritation crossed his face. It was clear that he was not used to being contradicted, particularly by a journalist – and a woman at that! ‘That’s not the point,’ he said. ‘If the Russians are allowed to increase their influence in Lhasa, and without a presence there we have little chance of stopping them doing so, then Tibet, like the leopard, could change its spots. But there is another point. The Dalai Lama has shown great discourtesy to the British government. I have written to him twice on these matters and both letters have been returned unopened. We can’t be flouted in this way in this region. Our reputation would be harmed.’
Alice stifled a smile. It was clear that he, Lord Curzon, was certainly not used to being treated like that. A case of lèse majesté, of course. But perhaps she was being unfair.
‘Of course,’ and she nodded. ‘I quite see that. It would encourage the malcontents in India. But even so, sending in troops … surely a step too far?’
Curzon issued a viceregal sigh. ‘We have no intention of “sending in troops”, as you put it. I proposed to the government back home that we should send a commercial mission to Lhasa to begin negotiations of the widest possible scope, culminating, hopefully, with the appointment of a permanent British representative in that city.’
He paused and his sharp features resumed their air of painful disapproval. ‘My colleagues in Whitehall took, ah, some time to consider this and, in the meantime, Russia protested that it had no designs on Tibet and, indeed, had no treaty concerning it with China. As a result, the government rejected the idea of a trade mission to Lhasa but agreed to my fallback suggestion of opening negotiations with China and Tibet at Khamba Jong, the nearest inhabited town on Tibetan territory to Giaogong, Sikkim’s border town. As a result, as you have pointed out, we sent a frontier commission there, suitably protected, of course, to deter any question of the Tibetans attacking it.’
He forced a smile. ‘I hope all this detail is not boring you, Miss Griffith, but I do feel it important to give you the background.’
‘Oh, good gracious no, sir. I am most grateful to you for your patience. But now the commission has retreated back to India?’
‘Indeed. It stayed at Khamba Jong – a most godforsaken place, by the way – for five months. We foresaw that negotiations might, er, languish, but I must confess that I did not think that none would take place at all. The Tibetans and the Chinese refused to open any formal negotiations, insisting that the commission must retreat from its soil.’
Alice cleared her throat and smiled at Curzon through her lashes. ‘Perhaps a not unreasonable attitude, since we had entered Tibet without receiving an invitation to do so ….’
‘I disagree. Quite unreasonable. We had displayed no aggressive intent while waiting on that arid plain. On the contrary, we traded very amicably with the local inhabitants, such as they were, and sent a succession of most courteously phrased messages to Lhasa. But there is more. While all this was going on, news reached us that two natives of India – British subjects – had been arrested in Lhasa, beaten and tortured and thrown into prison.’
Alice retained her smile. ‘Ah, now, were they spies, I wonder …?’
‘That, madam, is neither here nor there. No civilised nation ill-treats nationals of another, friendly power and incarcerates them, without allowing them to defend themselves or approaching the government of their country. It was quite disgraceful. As a result, I am glad to say that the attitude of His Majesty’s government has hardened. I have been given permission to launch – not an invasion – but a second mission into Tibet. This will advance some 200 miles into the heartland of the country to a place called Gyantse, a prominent Tibetan city and a little over halfway to Lhasa.’
‘Escorted, presumably, by troops?’
‘Indeed. We certainly could not risk the mission being attacked. But we have assured Lhasa that we have no aggressive intent. The mission will not lead to any occupation of Tibet or to permanent intervention in Tibetan affairs. As soon as reparation for past breakages of the treaty has been confirmed, then a withdrawal will be effected.’
A silence fell on the room as Alice, head down, scribbled quickly. Oh, how she wished she had learnt shorthand! Eventually, she looked up. ‘What if they still refuse to negotiate? Will the mission advance to Lhasa?’
‘That remains to be seen. At the moment, certainly the government does not wish it to do so.’
‘Hmmm.’ Alice sucked her pencil again. ‘And what happens if the mission is attacked?’
‘Then the escorting troops will defend it robustly.’
Putting down her pencil slowly, Alice frowned. ‘Allow me to get this clear, Viceroy. Let me see. Where are we now? We are in November. It will clearly be some time before you can advance into Tibet. This means that, to penetrate some 200 miles into the country, the mission and its escort will have to cross some of the highest mountain passes in the world in the middle of winter. Surely this is a daunting prospect?’
Curzon nodded slowly. ‘It will not be easy. But I am assured by Colonel Younghusband, who will lead the mission and who is vastly experienced in terms of travelling in the Himalayas, that it is quite possible.’
Alice felt anger stirring within her. She looked round the room with its opulent furnishings and then up at the ornate ceiling, from where the very latest electric fan was lazily stirring the heavy air. Oh, the arrogance of the man, sitting in such comfort and planning to send men to fight in the depths of winter at such altitudes! So typical of the British ruling classes. So sure, even now, that the Empire could be extended on little more than a whim!
She sought to control her temper and coughed to clear her throat. ‘But some of these passes must be … what … more than 14,000 feet high and blocked with snow by the time the column approaches them. Surely no force has been asked to make this sort of journey before. And what if the Tibetans dispute their passage?’
‘We shall fight our way through. We shall have vastly superior firepower – if we are attacked, which I very much doubt. I am confident that the Tibetans will see sense, when they realise how determined we are.’
‘I see. And when will the invasion – sorry … the journey – when will it begin?’
‘I repeat. This is not an invasion. We estimate that the mission will set off in about the middle of December. Certainly before Christmas.’
Alice wrote and then slowly closed her notebook. She made as though to stand. ‘I am most grateful to you, Lord Curzon,’ she said, ‘for giving me so much of your time and for explaining so carefully—’ She stopped, for the Viceroy had raised a hand.
‘There is one other matter, Miss Griffith,’ he began. And she noticed that, for the first time, he looked just a little uneasy. He smiled again – the relaxation of the facial muscles that somehow did not communicate with the eyes. He leant forward.
‘You will perhaps have noted that I do not usually give interviews of this nature to members of the press.’
‘Er … yes. I confess that I was a little surprised that you agreed to my request – and most grateful, I must add.’
‘Yes, yes. Quite. Well, there was another reason.’ He leant back in his chair and his smile broadened. Alice tightened her buttocks instinctively. She sensed that the charm was being switched on. What was coming?
‘You see, I have always been an admirer of your husband.’
‘How kind.’
‘Yes, well, although I may seem to you and, indeed, the world at large that I am … what shall I say … a conventional man whose own career has been marked by a rise to my present position via a well-ordered route: Eton, Oxford, the Commons, a junior position in government and so on.’
The Viceroy paused and Alice was not quite sure what was expected of her. So, she smiled in turn and murmured, ‘Indeed.’
‘Yes, well, that was quite true. But, if I may say so, I have also been quite adventurous in my own way – travelling widely in rather wild parts of the globe and that sort of thing. Not by any means so courageously as your husband, who,’ he leant forward and shook his head slightly from side to side in mock astonishment, ‘seems to have fought in every war, large or small, that this country has been engaged in for at least a quarter of a century. Yes. Quite remarkable – and, indeed,’ he added quickly, ‘matched virtually by you, step by step, or so it seemed.’
Alice smiled faintly and nodded at the compliment. What on earth was the man getting at?
‘Yes. You see, this mission is quite important to me and I would give anything to be able to go on it myself. Alas,’ he shrugged his shoulders and held out his hands resignedly, ‘that is quite impossible. I cannot leave my post here. But …’ He paused and then sat back. ‘If your husband could go – not exactly in my place – but with my blessing, as my sort of representative, I would have much greater confidence in its success.’
‘What?’ Alice felt her jaw drop. ‘Simon go to Tibet with the column?’
‘Yes. Oh, I know it is a rather impertinent request considering that he and I have never met, but he is a man who has never shirked to answer a call to serve his country and I think he would be ideally placed to fulfil a rather unusual but important role with the mission.’
‘But what … what would that role be? Surely Colonel Younghusband would be in command of the column?’
‘Yes, and he will be joined by a splendid sapper, Brigadier James Macdonald, an old India and Africa hand, who has been recommended by Lord Kitchener and who will command the military escort. Both of these men are ideally suited to their tasks but, in my view, they would be perfectly complemented in tackling the strange and unconventional challenges presented to them by the presence of a man as widely experienced as your husband, who has been scout, soldier and diplomat all rolled into one in so many strange corners of the Empire.’
‘Well,’ Alice sought for words. Her mouth had dried at the thought of the dangers that would be presented to Simon – a man no longer in his youth – in those high mountain passes if the column had to fight its way through deep snow, ice storms and, quite possibly, an army of indigenous tribesmen desperate to protect their country from invaders.
She swallowed. ‘Sir, my husband is no longer a young man. He is nearing fifty, I doubt whether—’
Curzon cut her short. ‘My dear Mrs Fonthill’ – Alice noted that the form of address had now changed – ‘I do appreciate your concern. But it is only a little over a year since Brigadier Fonthill, as he then was, was spending months in the saddle on the South African veldt in hot pursuit of those Boer generals Botha and de Wet, service for which he was awarded a DSO, to match his Companionship of the Bath. And, as you yourself have admitted, he is a man who quickly became bored at the life of a farmer back home. Kitchener himself was hugely impressed by the exploits of your husband in this late war and approves of him being approached to lend his services to help Younghusband and Macdonald in the difficult tasks ahead of them.’
‘Well, I will certainly put this to him, sir.’
‘No need to, ma’am. I have put my request to him in writing and I would be most grateful if you would carry my letter back to him.’ Curzon raised his voice. ‘Willoughby!’
‘Sir.’ The young secretary glided through the doorway.
‘My letter to Brigadier Fonthill.’
‘Very good, My Lord.’
Curzon was now beaming at his guest. Alice realised that this was a discreet form of blackmail: she had been granted the interview and been made privy to the Viceroy’s thoughts on Tibet in return for acting as messenger to Simon. Her thoughts turned quickly to picture her husband, bandana wrapped round his perspiring forehead, on his knees in the dust beside some recalcitrant tea plant, cursing it and wishing that he had never invested his money in tea growing in the hills of Assam. Go? He would be off like a shot!
She suddenly smiled. Two could play at this game.
‘Very well, Lord Curzon,’ she said sweetly. ‘I have a request to put to you.’
‘Certainly, dear lady.’
‘Well, if my husband accepts your request, I would like to accompany him on the mission.’
‘What!’ Within seconds, Curzon’s smiling face had turned to thunder. ‘Good gracious, no, madam. The mountains of Tibet are no place for a woman.’
‘Do you know, sir,’ she took a deep breath, ‘that is more or less what was said to me about the deserts of Egypt, when Wolseley invaded that country, the hills of Afghanistan when Lord Roberts fought the Afghans, the jungle of northern Matabeleland when Cecil Rhodes’s mercenaries created Rhodesia; the Khyber Pass when the Pathans revolted; and, indeed, the veldt of the Free State when de Wet and Botha roamed freely there. But I went anyway and reported on the deeds of our soldiers in all those places.’
‘Yes, but … there will be no place for wives in this column.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go as a wife. You will shortly be receiving a request from the editor of The Morning Post that I be accredited as a war correspondent for that newspaper with the column. I shall wish to be treated as I always have been: as a journalist reporting on a matter of keen public interest. And the background facts that you have so kindly given me today will help me considerably when I come to carry out that task. I am very grateful.’
Ten minutes later, Alice leant back luxuriously onto the cushions in the viceregal carriage that Lord Curzon had insisted that she use to travel to her hotel and hoisted her parasol with a smug smile. It had been a good afternoon’s work. She had gained splendid material for an exclusive story about what was undoubtedly an invasion by Britain of Tibet. She was, she knew, clever enough these days to roast the oleaginous Curzon in her story without appearing to deviate from reporting the facts, so staying within the the Post’s policy of supporting the Tory government through thick and thin. She would, of course, tell her unsuspecting editor that the Viceroy had certainly raised no objections to her accompanying the column as his newspaper’s accredited correspondent – he had, of course, no idea that she was intent on going – and she had no doubt that Simon would accept the offer contained in the Curzon’s letter, now housed safely in her handbag.
She would write her story that evening at the hotel, despatch it to London from the cable office, send a telegram to Simon in the morning and, with any luck, catch the train and commence the long journey back to Assam and her husband tomorrow afternoon.
Ah, Simon! She smiled as she summoned up his face, then frowned at the thought of the danger he would face on those Himalyan peaks. She had not been dissembling when she had talked of his age. Yet, all those years of campaigning and farming had, she knew, left him as fit as a man half his age. What was he doing now, she wondered, at that very moment, among the tea plants in Assam, some 450 miles away?
CHAPTER TWO
In fact, Simon was fingering the butt of his Webley revolver nestling in its holster, as he stood, feet wide apart, questioning his overseer among the neat rows of tea bushes.
‘Where did they go?’
The man was wide-eyed and obviously fearful. He gestured over his shoulder. ‘They disappear into the trees over there, sahib. About six of them. They have knives.’
‘Anyone hurt?’
‘Yes, one. They stab him in arm. He all right, though. We bandage him up. But they take the few rupees the men have. Everyone frightened.’
Fonthill frowned. The workers had downed tools and were huddled together in the middle of the plantation, surrounding the wounded man who sat on the ground holding his arm. The group was well away from the trees which swept down from the hills and marked the edge of the plantation in a geometric line. Simon could see the opening in the woods from which the attackers had debouched.
He cursed silently. The labourers had been imported from Southern India, for the Assamese were notoriously averse to working on the tea plantations. The immigrants were better workers than the locals but timid and terrified of the wild men of the hills. This was not the first time that the Nagas had visited and robbed. They would have to be followed and taught a lesson, otherwise they would come calling again … and again.
He looking at his overseer appraisingly. ‘Duleep,’ he said. ‘I left you with a rifle.’ He gestured to the old Lee Metford that the man was now using as a prop. ‘Why did you not use it?’
Duleep looked at the ground. ‘Ah, sahib. I was afraid that if I use it they would come at me with their knives. So I pretended to aim it at them and blew my whistle to fetch you, as you told me. When they heard it they run away.’
‘How long ago?’
‘About five minutes.’
‘Hmmm. Take the wounded man into the house and get Ahmed to look at the wound and treat it with antiseptic cream from the first-aid kit. But,’ he held out a restraining hand, ‘before you go, tell me if there is a good tracker amongst the men. Someone who could help me follow the Nagas’ trail. They can’t have gone far.’
The overseer thought for a moment, searching the huddled men with his yellow-balled eyes. ‘Yes, I think.’ He pointed. ‘That one, the young one, on the edge staring up the trail, his hands on his hips. He is young and strong and came originally from Tibet but he was brought up near Madras in the south, where there is much forest. I think he knows the ways of the woods, as well as mountains. And he is brave. He tried to attack the man who stabbed. Oh yes.’
‘Does he speak English?’
‘Yes, he go to mission school, I think.’
‘Good. Call him over.’
Simon broke open his revolver and checked that six cartridges were still in their chambers. Then he emptied the cartridges from the cardboard box that he had brought with him from the bungalow and stuffed them into the pockets of his breeches.
Sunil now stood before him, a slim young man of sixteen or so, who held his head back and looked steadily into Fonthill’s eyes.
Simon held out his hand. At first the young Indian did not understand the gesture. Then, slowly – for he had never touched a white man before – he extended his hand and shook that of Fonthill limply, for he was, of course, unused to the custom.
‘Sunil, I understand that you tried to attack the Naga who stabbed your friend.’
The Indian switched his gaze to the floor and spoke softly. ‘Yes, sahib. Man, he stabbed my uncle. My uncle not harm him. I was angry.’
‘You had every right to be. It was a good action. Thank you.’
The boy looked embarrassed. ‘I did little, sahib.’
‘Now, I propose to go after the Nagas. But I need someone to come with me. Someone who is not afraid of them and who can follow their trail. Can you do that, do you think?’
Sunil’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘Oh yes, sahib. I see the way they go. They crash through trees. I can follow. And,’ he thrust his chest out, ‘I not afraid of them.’
‘Good man. Can you fire a rifle?’
A frown crossed the black face. ‘No sahib. But I learn.’
Simon grinned. ‘You certainly will. Duleep.’ He spoke drily now. ‘As you don’t seem to want to use your rifle, please give it to Sunil here. I will show him how to use it. Pass over your bandolier, too.’
Sullenly, the overseer did so.
‘Now,’ Fonthill spoke to him again. ‘Sunil and I will follow these Nagas, find them and teach them a lesson they will never forget. You will be in charge of the plantation while we are away. If there is any trouble, send a man to fetch Mr Jackson on the next plantation. Understand?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘Now, Sunil. Go back to the bungalow quickly and ask the cook to make sandwiches from last night’s lamb – you are not vegetarian, are you?’
‘No, sahib.’
‘Good. Bring water bottles and fruit. We may be away overnight. Go quickly now. We have no time to lose. I will wait for you at the beginning of the trail over there.’
‘Yes, sahib.’
Simon nodded to Duleep. ‘Now, fetch the wounded man and get the rest back to work. Tell them I am going to follow the Nagas and punish them so that they will never attack the plantation again.’ Then he walked firmly past the men towards the opening where the narrow trail through the forest ended at the edge of the plantation.
He stood looking at it for a moment. He could see no sign of men having rushed down it. The trees stood thickly on either side of it – no broken twigs or anything of that kind. The earth of the trail itself was hard and bore no signs of footprints. God, he hoped that Sunil did indeed have tracking skills, for he doubted if he himself could detect the way the attackers had gone, if they moved off the trail. He looked upwards. The trees closed in on either side of the narrow path and seemed impenetrably dark. It would be so easy for an ambush to be launched from them.
The Nagas had knives, of course. He swallowed hard. The thought of cold steel involuntarily reminded him of Zulus and of Rorke’s Drift all those years ago, where the warriors kept attacking the barricades in wave after wave through the night, howling and brandishing their assegais. He had seen stomachs ripped open by those blades that night. Damn! He should have witnessed enough blood spilt since that time to have washed away all those old fears. He shook his head and licked his lips.
If only 352 Jenkins was here! For over twenty years the stocky, immensely strong Welshman had been by his side through all the adventures he had shared with Alice, and sometimes with just the two of them, miles behind enemy lines. Known affectionately only by the last three digits of his army number – to distinguish him from the many other Jenkinses in the old 24th Regiment of Foot, that most Welsh of all British units – Jenkins had been his batman and had stood by him when he had been falsely accused of cowardice during the Zulu War. Together they had gone on to wipe away all memories of that accusation. After serving as the regimental sergeant major to the column of Mounted Infantry that Simon had commanded against the Boers, Jenkins had married at the end of the conflict and settled down to farm in South Africa.
Fonthill suddenly realised that, by going after the Naga tribesmen, he would be going into action again for the first time since 1878 without his old comrade at his side. Then the sound of footsteps made him turn his head to see a grinning Sunil running towards him, carrying a knapsack and rifle, the sun glinting from the cartridges cases in his bandolier. Well, he reflected, he had a new comrade now. He swallowed hard. Into battle once more!
He returned Sunil’s grin. ‘Give me the rifle. Now, watch me carefully. Before firing, make sure that there is a round inserted from the magazine into the breach, like this.’ He worked the bolt.
The youth’s eyes widened as he watched.
‘The magazine takes ten bullets. You load it by taking cartridges from the bandolier …’ and he went through the process of loading, aiming and firing. ‘Do you think you can do that, Sunil?’
‘Oh yes, sahib. I kill the man who hurt my uncle.’
‘Good.’ Fonthill smiled. ‘Now, as I shall be walking ahead of you I don’t want you to fire the gun accidently up my arse …’
‘Arse, sahib?’
‘Ah, sorry. It’s a rude word for bottom. This little lever is the safety catch. Put that on until you want to fire the gun. On second thoughts, as you are tracking you must go ahead, but I shall be close behind you. We need to look particularly to see if and where they leave the trail. Understand?’
‘Yes, sahib.’
‘Good. Give me the haversack. Now, off we go. Quietly now. I don’t think they will expect to be followed, but you never know. They could be waiting in ambush, so look very carefully about you.’
Fonthill shouldered the haversack, withdrew his revolver from its holster and gestured ahead. Together, they began the climb. The plantation was situated some 4,000 feet above sea level and, although he was long acclimatised to the altitude, the trail through the woods was steep and Simon was immediately forced to draw in his breath in short gasps. Sunil, however, despite coming from the southern lowlands, seemed to have no difficulty and his long stride began to pull him away, until Fonthill drew him back.
‘Stay close,’ he hissed.
They had climbed for some forty minutes and pines were beginning to outnumber the bold birches which had fringed the trail earlier when the youth held up his hand and dropped onto his hands and knees.
Fonthill stood above him, revolver in hand, breathing heavily. ‘What?’ he mouthed.
Sunil held his finger up to his lips and beckoned Simon to kneel beside him. ‘Look,’ he whispered and pointed. At first, Fonthill could see nothing unusual in the dust and pine needles on the ground. Then, he noted that the needles had been disturbed and there, in the dust, was the impression, faint but clear, of the ball of a naked foot and of a big toe.
‘This point to right,’ whispered Sunil, ‘which mean they go off trail. Through there.’ He gestured to where the pine branches were no longer interlocked. A little further ahead, some had been snapped off to facilitate progress between the trees.
‘Well done,’ breathed Simon. ‘We’ll follow.’
Sunil held up his hand again and stood up. He put his head back and sniffed the air.
‘They not far away,’ he murmured. ‘I smell them.’
‘Smell them?’ Simon was incredulous.
‘Oh yes. They put oil on bodies and hair. I smell it when they hurt my uncle. They near. Perhaps they camp.’
‘Or wait for us.’ Fonthill swallowed hard. It was almost impossible to see beyond ten feet or so off the trail, where low bushes covered the ground between the trees. If the Nagas truly were near, then they could well be lying low there, hidden under the ground cover, waiting to pounce. Ah well, there was nothing for it but to advance.
He paused for a moment and then knelt to pick up a fist-sized piece of rock off the ground, which he retained in his left hand. Then he reached across to switch off the safety catch on Sunil’s rifle, gestured to say that he would now take the lead and began cautiously to thrust his way through the faintly marked opening between the bushes and trees.
After some thirty yards a low sound ahead made him pause. He was unsure what it was – little more than a faint rustle, perhaps a small animal. He turned his head and Sunil, close behind him, his eyes wide and his pink tongue protruded between his lips, nodded and pointed ahead with the rifle, a little to the right.
Fonthill drew back his hand and lobbed the stone hard towards where Sunil had pointed. It crashed through the undergrowth and landed on something soft, eliciting a shout of pain.
Immediately, the bush came alive with six figures who sprang to their feet on either side of the trail, brandishing long knives and crashing through the undergrowth towards the two men.
It was, in fact, that density of ground cover that probably saved their lives, because it impeded the charge of the natives.
Simon fired instinctively and cursed as the bullet missed the leading man. His second shot, however, took the Naga in the breast and felled him. Dropping to one knee, Fonthill heard the crack of the rifle behind him and saw a second man fall – thank God Sunil had learnt to shoot! Then the third was upon him. He caught a glimpse of a gleaming black face and a naked torso and he ducked as the long knife swung above his head. He fired, with the barrel of the revolver almost touching the belly of his assailant. The man howled and doubled over, so that Simon was forced to thrust him aside and, panting, present the revolver again – at nothing.
There was just time to see one naked back vanish through the trees before all was quiet again. Simon turned to Sunil. The boy had tears of frustration streaming down his cheeks as he struggled to work the bolt on the Lee Metford.
‘Sorry, sahib,’ he cried. ‘I do not do this well. Thing is … what you say … stick.’
‘Stuck. Here, let me.’
Fonthill took the rifle and eased the bolt back. He forced a smile and handed the gun back. ‘You did well. I could not have shot them all with this handgun, but we got three of the varmints, anyway. Now we must see if any of them are still alive.’
In fact, all three of their assailants had been killed, with the third – the man whom Simon had shot through the stomach at close range – dying as they knelt by him. Fonthill realised that the boy was shaking and he patted him on the shoulder.
‘It is not good to kill,’ he said. ‘I had hoped that this would not be necessary. But we had no alternative, for they attacked us and would surely have killed us if we had not brought half of them down. Sometimes, killing is the only way to survive.’ He shook his head and realised that perspiration was pouring down his own cheeks. ‘God knows,’ he added quietly, ‘I’ve done enough of it in my time.’
‘Now,’ he looked about him. ‘They have clearly fled, presumably back to their village.’ He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow. ‘I don’t think they will try to attack us again, for they will have had the fright of their lives and seen three of their comrades killed. We have nothing to bury these chaps with, so I am afraid that we shall have to leave them here.’
Sunil leant down and plucked a leaf and used it to wipe his cheeks. ‘We go back now, sahib?’ he asked.
Fonthill shook his head. ‘Afraid not, Sunil.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Have you any idea what language these people speak?’
‘Yes sahib. It is like Hindustani but different. Also like Tibetan, which I speak. But I understand them. I hear what they say when they shout at us. “Give us your money …”’
‘Good. I want to go on to their village. Do you think you can find it?’
‘Think so. More difficult to follow only three but I think they hurry now, they are frightened, so easier to see the way they go.’
