had already reached a height of nearly 7,000 feet and during the night we often passed camps of Bhutia, the Tibetan traders who in summer carry on their business in southern Tibet and in winter come across into India. Many of them live during the hot weather in little villages situated above the 10,000-foot level, where they grow barley. These camps had a very disagreeable feature in the shape of the powerful and savage Tibetan dogs—a shaggy-coated, middle-sized breed—which we now encountered for the first time.
One night we arrived at one of these Bhutia villages which are only inhabited in summer. It looked very homelike with its shingle and stone-covered roofs. But behind it an unpleasant surprise was awaiting us in the shape of a swiftly running stream which had overflowed its banks and turned the adjacent ground into a swamp. It was absolutely impossible to cross it. At last we gave up trying to find a way over, and determined to wait till day and observe the ground from a shelter, for we could not believe that the Pilgrims’ Road broke off short at this point. To our utmost astonishment, we observed next morning that the procession of pilgrims continued on their way and crossed the water at precisely the spot at which we had spent hours of the night vainly trying to get over. Unfortunately we could not see how they managed it, as trees interrupted our sight of the actual place. But something else equally inexplicable occurred. We observed that later on in the morning the stream of pilgrims stopped. Next evening we tried again to cross at the same place and again found that it was impossible. At last it dawned on me that we had in front of us a burn, fed by melted snow and ice, which carried its highest head of water from noon till late into the night. Early in the morning the water level would be lowest.
It turned out to be as I had guessed. When in the first grey of dawn we stood beside the stream, we saw a primitive bridge of half-submerged tree-trunks. Balancing ourselves carefully we got across to the other side. Unfortunately there were other streams which we had to cross in the same laborious manner. I had just crossed the last of these when Marchese slipped and fell into the water—luckily on top of the trunks, or he would otherwise have been carried away by the torrent. Wet to the skin and completely exhausted he could not be induced to go on. I urged him to move at least into cover, but he just spread out his wet things to dry and started to light a fire. Then for the first time I began to regret that I had not listened to his repeated requests to leave him behind and carry on alone. I had always insisted that since we had started together, we should carry on together.
As we were arguing an Indian stood before us, who after a glance at the various objects of obviously European origin spread out on the ground began to ask us questions. Only then did Marchese realise what danger we were in. He quickly put his things together, but we had hardly gone a couple of steps when we were stopped by another Indian, a distinguished-looking fellow leading a section often strapping soldiers. In perfect English he asked for our passes. We affected not to understand and said we were pilgrims from Kashmir. He thought this over for a moment and then found a solution which spelled finis to our hopes of escape. There were, he said, two Kashmiris in the neighbouring house. If we could make them understand us, we could go on our way. What devilish ill-luck had brought two Kashmiris into the neighbourhood just at that moment? I had only used this “alibi” because it was the most unlikely thing to find Kashmiris in this region.
The two men of whom he spoke were flood-damage experts, who had been called in from Kashmir. As soon as we stood before them we realised that the moment of our unmasking had come. As we had agreed to do in such a case, I began to speak to Marchese in French. Immediately the Indian broke in, speaking also in French, and told us to open our packs. When he saw my English-Tibetan grammar he said we might just as well say who we were. We then admitted that we were escaped prisoners but did not give away our nationality.
Soon after we were sitting in a comfortable room drinking tea, but all the same I felt bitterly disappointed. This was the eighteenth day of our flight and all our privations and efforts had gone for nothing. The man who had questioned us was the chief of the Forestry Department in the state of Tehri-Garwhal. He had studied forestry in English, French and German schools and knew all three languages well. It was on account of the flood, the worst catastrophe of the kind in the last hundred years, that he had come on an inspection to this region. He smilingly regretted his presence, adding that as ours had been reported to him he was obliged to do his duty.
Today when I think of the concatenation of circumstances which led to our capture, I cannot help feeling that we were victims of something worse than ordinary ill-luck and that we could not have averted our fate. All the same I did not for a minute doubt that I would escape again. Marchese, however, was in a condition of such complete exhaustion that he had given up all idea of another attempt. In a very comradely manner he made over to me the greater part of his money, knowing how short I was. I made good use of an enforced leisure to eat hearty meals, as we had hardly eaten anything for the last few days. The forest-officer’s cook kept us continuously supplied with food, half of which I tucked away in my knapsack. Early in the evening we said we were tired and wanted to sleep. Our bedroom door was locked on the outside and the forest-officer had his bed put on the veranda in front of our window to prevent any attempt at escape that way. However, he was away for a short while and Marchese and I took the opportunity to start a mock quarrel. Marchese took both parts, so to speak, shouting abuse in a high and then a low key, while I swung myself through the window, rucksack and all, on to the forest-officer’s bed, and ran to the end of the veranda. Darkness had fallen, and after waiting a few seconds till the sentries had vanished round the corner of the house, I dropped down twelve feet to the ground below. The soil into which I fell was not hard and I made little noise; in a moment I was up and over the garden wall and had vanished into the pitch-black forest.
I was free!
Everything was quiet. In spite of my excitement I could not help laughing at the thought that Marchese was still abusing me according to plan, while the forest-officer was keeping watch on us from his bed in front of our window.
However, I had to go on and ran, in my haste, into a flock of sheep. Before I could get back a sheepdog fastened on to the seat of my trousers and did not let go till he had bitten a piece out. In my terror I dashed away but found that the road I had chosen was too steep for me and so I had to go back and creep round the sheep till I found another way. Soon after midnight I had to admit that I had again gone wrong. So once more I had to go back a few miles in breathless haste. My aimless wanderings had lost me four hours and the day was already dawning. Turning a corner I caught sight of a bear about twenty yards away. Luckily he shuffled off without seeming to take any notice of me.
When it was fully light I hid myself again, although the country showed no trace of human habitation. I knew that before reaching the Tibetan frontier I should come to a village at the other side of which lay freedom. I marched through the whole of the next night and gradually began to wonder why I had not reached the fateful village. According to my notes it lay on the far bank of the river and was connected with the near side by a bridge. I wondered if I had not already passed it, but consoled myself with the reflection that one could hardly miss a village. So I marched on carefree, even after daylight had come.
That was my undoing. As I came round a heap of boulders, I found myself right under the houses of a village, in front of which stood a swarm of gesticulating people. The place was wrongly indicated on my map and as I had twice lost my way during the night, my pursuers had had time to come up with me. I was at once surrounded and summoned to surrender, after which I was led into a house and offered refreshment.
Here I met for the first time with the real Tibetan nomads, who wander into India with their flocks of sheep and loads of salt and return laden with barley. I was offered Tibetan butter-tea with tsampa, the staple food of these people on which later I lived for years. My first contact with it affected my stomach most disagreeably.
I spent a couple of nights in this village, which was called Nelang, playing vaguely with the idea of another attempt to escape, but I was physically too tired and mentally too despondent to translate my thoughts into action.
