Live - and Let Live

By 'Zakhmi Dil' (a pseudonym belonging to Major-General Richard Hilton)

This story was originally published as an article in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, vol.234, in December 1933. This story has not been available online until now. This, and other stories written by the same author, are available in our republished edition of Nine Lives, the Autobiography of an Old Soldier, available on wylfings.com

THIS is a tale of many years ago—so many that the telling seems permissible. My companions in crime must be either dead or in the Andaman Islands, though with luck it is just possible that they may have settled down to a peaceful old age. However, to avoid any risk of indiscretion, I have not given the real name of the leader of the gang.

The crime to which I was an accessory was entirely due to my obstinacy in pursuing a plan so eccentric and unconventional that many of my friends foretold my probable fate should I persist in my folly. But none of them foresaw the actual experience which befell me.

My eccentricity consisted in setting out upon a two months' journey by myself—that is to say, without any bearer or shikari or ‘tiffin-cooly’ or any of the other henchmen whose attendance is generally considered so essential to the comfort and wellbeing of the travelling sahib. It was dire necessity that primarily urged me to adopt this unusual plan. ‘Trekking’ in normal comfort is always an expensive undertaking.

The chief item of expense is the hiring of transport, and it naturally follows that two men will require twice the amount of transport of one man. The trouble, in fact, is not ended there. As soon as a party attains to a certain size, additional pack-animals begin to be required to carry forage for the original quota of pack-animals, and to administer to the needs of their drivers.

“Big fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ’m, And little fleas have littler fleas—so on ‘ad infinitum.’”[1]

The same great truth holds good in the case of convoys of pack-animals travelling through a barren land. The only hope for a poor man is to be firm from the outset in resisting the non-essential. I therefore decided that my party, reduced to the barest minimum, could and should consist of—

(a) Myself.

(b) Sufficient blankets to prevent me from freezing to death at night.

(c) Sufficient food to supplement local supplies (which are chiefly notable for the scarcity).

The last-named item included the necessary pots and pans in which to cook the food. Here again the absence of a bearer made it very much easier for me to cut down scales of baggage and eliminate luxuries. My bearer’s views on the question of food suitable for sahibs would have necessitated the addition of several more pack-animals. Had I taken him with me I could never have set out, as I did, with one frying pan and a ‘degchi,’ and a larder consisting almost exclusively of bacon, flour, tea and sugar.

By dint of much firmness I finally reduced my baggage to just a little over one pony load. To allow for accidents I decided to allow myself at first two baggage ponies, and one man to look after them and to lead them home again when I paid them off. This arrangement gave each pony a very light load, but allowed ample margin for the driver’s food and blankets, and for the carriage of forage and fuel where local resources were likely to fail us.

...........................................

As far as Leh the journey was uneventful. I set out from Srinagar one morning by ‘tonga’ as far as Ganderbal, where my pony-man and his two beasts were waiting. I took him with me as far as Dras, the first big village beyond the Zoji La Pass, and there I paid him off.

Travelling up the Treaty High Road to Leh nowadays is almost suburban in its simplicity. You merely tell the headman of each village where you spend the night, how much transport you need for next day’s march, and at what time it must be ready. At the end of each day’s march you pay off the transport of that day and make fresh arrangements with the next headman. It is as easy as taking a ticket on the District Railway, and as a rule less eventful.

When I arrived at Leh, the next part of my programme was a circular tour into the Shyok valley and back to Leh by way of Chang-Chenmo. Though this was full of interest for me, it was devoid of incident; and I was confronted with no difficulty at all from the point of view of transport. As this part of my journey began and ended at Leh, I was able to charter a yak and its owner to accompany me the whole way.

It was not till I embarked upon the third part of my journey that transport difficulties began to arise. On my way along the Treaty High Road the idea had gradually suggested itself that it would be rather fun to go back to India by some other route. After examining the various alternatives in consultation with the European residents of Leh, I decided on the route through Lahul and Kulu to Simla as being the most interesting. This track is open for several months in the hot weather, and presents no difficulties to well-equipped caravans of a reasonable size. It is, however, emphatically not the sort of road upon which one can hope to enjoy the amenities of the staging system, as established on the Treaty High Road.

Between Ladakh and Lahul the road has to cross the plateau of Rupshu, one of the less hospitable regions of the earth. For about ten days’ march the road scarcely descends below fifteen thousand feet. During this period it crosses three passes, all of which are over sixteen thousand feet, and throughout the whole extent of the Rupshu plateau there is not a tree or a bush to be seen. Water is very scarce and usually brackish; grass of a miserable scraggy sort protrudes here and there with difficulty from the acres of sand and rubble.

In the route-book, and on maps of Rupshu, at intervals of about a day’s march, places with fine resounding names—Ruk-chen, Ling-ti, Zing-zing-bar, &c.—are to be found. These magnificent names represent in actual fact nothing much to distinguish them from the rest of the day’s journey. There may be a spring or perhaps only a muddy pool. Occasionally there is a roofless, doorless, windowless stone building for the protection of those wayfarers who do not mind insect companionship.

The plateau of Rupshu does not boast one single permanent inhabitant. With luck one may meet another caravan coming in the opposite direction, or a ‘chang-pa’ of shepherds out of Spiti or Tibet, the sheep each carrying a small pack of merchandise or food. Apart from such chance encounters there is not much life to be seen—a few marmots, plenty of pigeons, and perhaps, once in a way, a herd of ‘kiangs,’ that queer breed of wild ass which manages in some mysterious manner to extract sufficient nourishment from those almost barren uplands.

Such was the region which I had to cross to carry out the third stage of my journey. It was decidedly a region to be traversed in company with one’s fellow-men—not a road for one man or two with a solitary beast of burden.

The British Commissioner in Leh, the doctor, and the German missionary between them suggested the solution of my problem. At that time of year caravans crossed the plateau at fairly regular intervals, coming mostly from Kashgar or Yarkand and making for India. These caravans nearly always had several spare baggage animals with them to replace the inevitable casualties of the road. It was suggested that I might be able to come to some agreement with the leader of a caravan to hire a couple of his spare beasts and accompany the party as far as the inhabited parts of Lahul. There I could make other arrangements for continuing my journey to Kulu and Simla.

Accordingly by means of the missionary’s servants and those at the rest-house I spread the news through the bazaars of Leh that I wished to join any party going in that direction. The various Europeans, official and non-official, resident in Leh also promised to let me know if it came to their notice that a caravan was setting out.

There was nothing to do except to wait, so I waited in Leh for about five days.

...........................................

One evening I was sitting in the rest-house reading one of its stock of books for a while before going to bed. To tell the truth, I was bored and despondent. There seemed to be little prospect of carrying out my plan. So far there had been no offers at all. I could not hang about in Leh much longer. I began to think seriously of plodding back tamely along the Treaty High Road.

The book was quite a good one, and by degrees I forgot my worries and became engrossed in the plot. It must have been nearly midnight when, closing the book with a yawn preparatory to turning in, I happened to glance at the window as I got up and caught sight of a bearded face peering in at me.

For an instant I thought that it might be the chowkidar, but I realised that he, following his usual custom, must long ago have gone to sleep. Seizing my stick, I rushed to the door and out on to the verandah. It was pitch dark for my eyes, coming straight out of a well-lighted room. I stood for a moment on the verandah, listening intently. The only sounds to be heard were a distant barking of dogs in the bazaar and the snores of the chowkidar at the far end of the verandah. I was just turning back into the room to get a light when a voice spoke to me out of the darkness. It sounded almost in my ear and made me nearly jump out of my skin.

“Salaam, Huzoor!”

Guided by the sound of the voice, I could dimly make out a tall figure standing motionless by my side. I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into the lighted room. “Who are you!” I demanded, “and what are you doing here at this time of night!” His general appearance indeed was bizarre enough to excite comment, even at normal visiting hours. He was a Sikh of sorts, but a regular scarecrow of a Sikh. His long hair, instead of being neatly rolled up and tucked out of sight, was escaping from under a grimy yellow ‘pagri’ and hanging in festoons about his ears. His bedraggled black beard looked as though it had never received the slightest attention. His eyes had that sly and rather insolent expression common to a certain type of Sikh.

“Sahib, I am a poor man,” he replied humbly.

“But what are you doing here!” I insisted. “This is no time for honest men to prowl round the dak-bungalow.”

“It is said that the sahib wants to go to Kailang. Is this rumour true, Huzoor?”

I confirmed it.

“I am a merchant of Leh,” he continued. “A caravan from Sin-kiang will set out for Kailang the day after tomorrow. If the sahib wishes, I can make a bandobast for him to go with them.”

This sounded promising, so I made further inquiries. The caravan, it appeared, was at present encamped at a place called Shushot on the Indus, a day’s march out of Leh. They intended to start their journey at dawn, so the Sikh suggested that I should march on to Shushot next day and join them. He would arrange the necessary transport to get my baggage out there.

We discussed various matters of detail, such as the price which the caravan leader might expect for the hire of two of his beasts. During the discussion it struck me that it would be more satisfactory if I could arrange all this directly with the people of the caravan instead of through this rather unprepossessing intermediary. It was rather annoying that I could not get in touch with them without going to Shushot.

“Why have they camped tight out at Shushot?” I asked the Sikh. “Surely it would have been easier for them to halt in Leh, where there is a good serai and the best bazaar in all Ladakh to furnish supplies for the journey!”

My visitor gave me a queer sly look, and hesitated just a moment before replying—

“The grazing at Shushot is much better than in Leh. Here so many caravans come and go that it is often difficult to find good pasture for the beasts. My friends know that there is plenty of good grass at Shushot, so they always camp there and send someone into Leh to get supplies and to carry out any transactions with me.”

This sounded reasonable, so I thought no more about it. We completed our discussion of details and the Sikh withdrew, promising to send me a couple of pack-ponies in the morning with a man to guide me out to Shushot.

...........................................

Next day, having bidden farewell to the friendly and hospitable European community, I set out with two diminutive baggage ponies driven by a Tibetan youth. He was a man of few words, or perhaps his knowledge of Urdu was about equal to my acquaintance with Tibetan, which was nil! At any rate I got nothing out of him throughout the whole twelve miles except the monosyllable ‘Ju!’ which seemed to be an answer for all questions. We crossed the Indus by a bridge of boats and soon afterwards came in sight of Shushot.

I am not sure what I had been expecting in the way of a caravan—possibly something resembling the imposing cavalcades that come and go through the Khyber Pass. Anyhow, this caravan was quite different from anything I had previously imagined. It consisted of a dozen gaunt mules, a couple of goats and about a dozen chickens. (Their mode of travel, I discovered later, was to ride perched on the mule-loads, tethered by the leg with a piece of string.) The human element numbered four all told—three tough-looking men and a boy of about nine or ten. They were obviously of Mongolian type—squat, wrinkled and slit-eyed, darker than the average Chinaman but cleaner than Tibetans. By their mode of dress I guessed that they were Mahomedans, and this turned out to be the case.

Warning of my arrival must have been sent to them, for the leader came out to welcome me as we approached. On the way I had been rather wondering how the language difficulty would solve itself, but all was well. Mirza, the leader, had done several journeys to India already, and was fluent in what he fondly called ‘Punjabi.’ Actually it was a fearsome mixture of Urdu, Punjabi and Persian, with a few words of his own tongue thrown in here and there. After a couple of days’ practice we got to understand one another quite well. The remainder of the party spoke no language known to me.

One look at Mirza’s face was enough to convince me that here was a pretty slippery customer. It was by no means the face of a churchwarden. Low cunning and lack of scruple were plainly written there. And yet, somehow, I rather took to him from the first. Even villainy of the deepest dye looks quite attractive in the weather-beaten features of mountaineers or sailors. The man was an obvious villain, I found myself thinking, but rather a genial one.

The other two men were of much the same sort. Even the boy, for all his tender years, would have held his own in the juvenile section of any rogues’ portrait gallery. The men were introduced to me by name; but I never quite grasped the names, as they were entirely strange to me. Linguistic difficulties prevented us from ever getting to know one another in the way that I got to know Mirza. The boy’s name I never even heard mentioned; he was invariably referred to throughout the march as ‘the boy.’

The Tibetan youth, having deposited my baggage, took his departure with his beasts and left me alone with my new companions. I selected a place for my own camp a little apart from the remainder, and as soon as I had unpacked my ‘degchi’ and started a fire, I began to take stock of my surroundings.

One of the first things that I noticed had the effect of troubling my mood of lazy contentment a little. The Sikh had said that the grazing at Shushot was better than that of Leh—so much so as to compensate for the inconvenience of halting a day’s march from the capital. Far from this being the case, I now saw that the grass was scanty and of distinctly poor quality! “Curious!” I thought to myself. “There is more in this than meets the eye.”

I puzzled my head about this for some time while eating my evening meal, but eventually gave it up, as it really did not matter much to me what their reason might be for avoiding Leh. The Sikh was evidently a liar, but there was nothing surprising in that. So the matter slipped out of my mind for the moment, as I had quite a lot to do before turning in for the night. For example I had replenished my stock of flour in Leh, and now had to busy myself making enough chupatties to last me across the Rupshu plateau. Here in Shushot fuel was fairly plentiful, but I knew that we would have to reduce our cooking to the barest minimum for the greater part of our journey.

While thus occupied I had a long chat with Mirza, who strolled over to my camp with one of the others to see if I needed any help. We talked mainly of the road before us, and fixed up the final details of our business arrangement. It was agreed that I should have the use of two spare mules, a share of the available fuel, assistance in loading and offloading my baggage, and the chance of buying part of a goat when the time came to kill one. For my part I agreed, in addition to payment for these services, to act as doctor to the expedition in case of need. Previous experience had taught me that all white men in those parts are regarded as fully qualified doctors, so I had brought with me a supply of household remedies for the simpler ailments such as cuts and burns, rheumatism and ‘tummy troubles.’

...........................................

For four days we travelled up the Indus and its tributary the Gya. Neither valley can be called densely populated. On an average we passed one village or one monastery a day. The intervening country was grim rather than beautiful. On either side precipitous hills of red or grey rock towered above the valley, while the river roared through a gorge two hundred feet or so below the path. Mirza and I usually walked together for an hour or so each day, and talked on all kinds of subjects. He asked me the usual questions of polite curiosity. “What was I doing in Ladakh! Was I after ‘shikar’! Was I making a map!”

These two occupations seemed to him to be the only conceivable reasons for the presence of a sahib in Ladakh. When I told him that I was doing neither he became very anxious indeed to know what my business might be. It is hard to explain ‘wanderlust’ to a man whose whole life has been spent in trudging to and fro over desolate mountains for a very meagre livelihood. When I told him that I was doing it just for the fun of seeing the country, he looked at me with frank incredulity. I could see that he was wondering whether I were mad or just a liar. I think he thought both might be the case.

During the fourth day’s march Mirza seemed to have something on his mind. At last, after talking about all sorts of matters in a ‘distrait’ way he asked me casually—

“Will it be inconvenient to you, Sahib, if we halt for the night about four miles this side of Gya? There is very good camping ground there, but in Gya itself the camping ground is small and dirty.”

Now Gya is a fairly big village near the top end of the Gya nullah, just before you ascend to the pass of Tagalaung La. It is the last habitation of any kind till you get to the other side of Rupshu plateau. I had been looking to our halt in Gya to afford me a final opportunity of buying a few eggs to see me through the first few days of the uninhabited region. It therefore would be inconvenient, and I said so. Besides this I knew quite well that Mirza’s remark about camping grounds was all ‘bunkum,’ and I wanted to find out his real reason.

“Don’t worry about that, Sahib,” he replied. “We want to buy a few things too, so one of us will go into Gya as soon as we have made camp. We can easily get your eggs for you, and some fresh milk too.”

“All the same,” I insisted, “I think it would be better for us to go on as far as Gya. We shall then be able to get across the Tagalaung La all the earlier.”

Mirza walked on for a few yards in silence, thinking deeply. Finally he grinned sheepishly.

“As a matter of fact, Sahib, there is a ‘pandit’ (Kashmir Government official) in Gya, who collects tolls from all the caravans that use this road. He is a ‘badmarsh’ and makes us pay double or treble the correct toll. We are poor men, Sahib; what can we do? There is no appeal from the tyranny of the ‘pandit.’ Therefore we wish to pass through Gya just before the dawn, when all will be asleep.”

So that was the root of all this mystery! That was evidently why they had given Leh such a wide berth—just a matter of dodging the road tolls. Very reprehensible, of course, but I could not help sympathising with them, considering what I knew of some Kashmiri ‘pandits’ and their ever open hands. I agreed to this mild bit of knavery, and we went on talking of other things.

Next morning we started off in pitch darkness and reached the village of Gya some time before dawn. We had taken every precaution to minimise noise by careful fastening of the loads and by tying grass and rags round the mules’ feet.

While going through the village street we took off our ‘chaplis’ and crept along barefooted, picking our way through the loose stones. One or two dogs barked, but nobody took any notice of them. It was bitterly cold, as nights can only be at thirteen thousand feet or more. The inhabitants of Gya were fast asleep inside their hermetically closed hovels.

It was remarkable how the spirits of the party rose as soon as we had left Gya a mile or two safely behind us. The other two men of the caravan, who had previously seemed rather morose, now burst into song and laughed and joked with each other as they walked along. Mirza became more voluble than ever. Even the boy appeared to enter with more zest than before into his task of collecting dried yaks’ dung, as we went along the road, to provide fuel for the evening meal. I thought what a tyrant the ‘pandit’ of Gya must be, since the mere fact of having avoided him caused these people so much joy.

The next few days passed very uneventfully. Everybody seemed convinced that I was a harmless lunatic to be humoured in my inane inquiries about their ways of doing various very ordinary jobs. For example, I was taught how to get a fire going with no fuel but a few bits of ‘argol’ (yaks’ dung), and soon I became fairly proficient in this useful accomplishment.

If I had confined my curiosity to harmless domestic matters like that, all would have been well. But one evening quite unintentionally I put my foot into things badly. We were nearly half-way across Rupshu and the mules were being offloaded for the night. I happened to be watching idly, when I noticed two small bales being stowed away by the boy. They had been carried each on a separate mule, tucked away between the two big side loads in such a way that I had never noticed them before. There was something about those bales that attracted my attention. During my stay in Leh I had frequented the bazaar a great deal, and had got to know by sight most of the ordinary merchandise and the form in which it was usually handled by the caravans. This was something quite new to me.

Without really thinking what I was saying—without realising for the moment that the boy knew no Urdu—I pointed at the bales and asked, “What is in those?”

It was as though a snake had stung the boy. He swung round towards me with a horror-stricken expression; then, grabbing the two bales, which he had just stowed among the heap of others, he dashed off to Mirza, who was tethering the beasts, and began jabbering away in great excitement, gesticulating and pointing at me.

It was quite obvious that I had been indiscreet, so I walked off and started preparing my supper, hoping that the excitement would pass. No such luck, however.

The whole time that I was eating my supper I could see the three men in earnest consultation round their fire. Every now and then they asked the boy something, and one or other of them kept looking in my direction. Hardly had I finished my meal when all three of them strolled over towards my camp, leaving the boy to mind their fire. Of course I knew that something was in the wind directly I saw them coming, because I had never before been honoured with a deputation like this. Usually only Mirza paid me a visit.

For a while Mirza and I chatted, as was our wont, about the affairs of our journey—the events of the day’s march, the best time to start on the morrow, and so on. This evening there was a subtle difference, however. I felt that he was acting a part, and the other two men, though they could not follow our conversation, were watching my face intently as though waiting for something to happen. At last I guessed what was happening. Psycho-analysis! Mirza and his friends in their own crude way were practising something of that kind on me, though at that time no such high-sounding title had been invented by Western science. In modern jargon, the two listeners were watching my reactions to certain turns of the conversation.

Presently, in a tone of affected carelessness, Mirza said—

“The boy tells me you asked him something about the loads, Sahib, but he does not understand Urdu. Was it anything that I can tell you!”

“Oh no. It was nothing important,” I replied in the same careless tone. “I believe I did say something to him, forgetting that he spoke no Urdu.”

“Which bales were you asking about, Sahib?”

“As far as I can remember they were rather small bales. I don’t think I have ever seen any quite like them before, so I suppose they attracted my attention.”

“You wondered what was in the little bales? Was that it, Sahib?”

“Yes, perhaps I did.”

Mirza paused and glanced significantly at his friends, who watched my face more intently than ever. “Well, Sahib, as a matter of fact it is ‘charas.’”

The critical moment had come, but I flatter myself that I rose to the occasion.

“Charas!” I repeated innocently, “what is that!” It was a white lie, but in the circumstances perhaps it was justified. In a place like the Rupshu plateau, where the nearest policeman is some distance away, one has to meet cunning with cunning.

Actually I had heard all about ‘charas’ during my few days’ sojourn in Leh. The commissioner and the missionary had both spoken about this powerful drug, made in Turkestan from a kind of hemp, and in former times imported in huge quantities into India. They had told me of the great harm caused by excessive consumption of the drug, and of the efforts of the Indian Government to decrease the traffic. An arrangement had been made with the Kashmir Government where the flow of ‘charas’ through Leh could be strictly controlled. This, of course, did not suit the wishes of millions of would-be ‘dope-fiends’ scattered throughout India. Smuggling was an inevitable consequence. Provided that there were men in India rich enough and willing to pay a high price for the drug, there would always be men like Mirza and his friends who would risk their liberty to supply the rich men with their pleasure.

All this I had already heard in Leh, but I listened attentively while Mirza explained the situation to me in his own words. I gathered that one or two successful trips of this kind—even with the small quantity of ‘charas’ that we were carrying—would enable them to retire in comfort. On the other hand, if they were caught, they would probably end their days across the ‘black water.’ With such issues at stake, much milder individuals than my present companions might take drastic steps to avoid any risk of failure. In the circumstances I thought it tactful to assure Mirza that excise duties were no part of the work of an army officer. I explained once more that I was in Ladakh purely as a private individual on leave. As long as they did not expect me to take any active part in their villainy the matter would continue to be no concern of mine.

Mirza translated this to the others, and a lively discussion started. He himself was quite prepared to trust me, I could see; but the others seemed suspicious and sceptical. At last they bade me good night and went back to their own fire, still arguing.

When wandering in strange places I always take the precaution of rigging up a kind of ‘zareba’ round myself with any material that may be handy. Here on the Rupshu plateau there was little to be found, so I did the best I could with several yards of rope. I fastened my two cooking pots to this obstacle, so that anybody tripping against it would make them clatter on the rocks.

I dropped off to sleep to the sound of a low mumble of conversation from the direction of the smugglers’ fire. They were usually asleep long before I was, so it was obvious that they were still debating the latest development and trying to decide what to do about it.

That night, however, passed without incident, and we set out next morning just as though nothing had happened. As usual, too, Mirza joined me for our daily chat, and for a long time steered well clear of the subject of ‘charas.’

“If you got ill, Sahib, or fell down a cliff on a journey like this, I suppose the Sirkar has got some means of obtaining news about you?”

“Oh yes!” I replied glibly. “Very little can happen without the knowledge of the Sirkar—even in a place like this.”

“How are such things arranged!”

“It is something to do with electricity,” I told him vaguely. “You, who have been to India, know that Sahibs can talk from one town to another along a piece of wire?” Mirza nodded in mystified agreement. “Well,” I continued truthfully, “by a new and wonderful ‘bandobast’ even the bit of wire is now no longer necessary.”

Having pondered in silence this strange scientific fact, Mirza reopened the conversation on a new line. He remarked what a pity it was that I had no shot-gun with me so as to get a few pigeons for the pot. They were so tame and presented such an easy target that one could probably shoot them even with a pistol. But perhaps the Sahib had not even got a pistol with him? I told him that I had no firearms at all, but omitted to mention that I had a very useful ‘kukri,’ which I kept handy under my pillow when sleeping in places like the Rupshu plateau. Shortly after this he excused himself, and went back to see that the mules were all correct.

Needless to say I did not relax my precautions at night after this conversation, but it was not till the fourth night that anything happened. We had just crossed the Baralacha La and were descending the upper valley of Lahul. Our camp was pitched by a roaring glacier stream, capable of drowning the noise of any amount of ‘dirty work.’ Luckily for me the unaccustomed din, in contrast with the silence of the Lingti and More plains, had the effect of keeping me awake. Otherwise I might never have heard the feeble tinkle of my frying-pan on the rocks. I drew my ‘kukri,’ slid my blankets off me as quietly as possible and switched my torch in the direction of the sound. It lit up the guilty faces of Mirza’s two companions, each armed with a large piece of rock.

One of them must have caught sight of the glint of my ‘kukri’ blade as I scrambled out of bed; for he leaped back suddenly, caught his heel against a boulder and next moment he was into the torrent with a splash! Though he did not really deserve it, I felt that we had better fish him out if we could, so I yelled to Mirza and began to cast loose my ‘zareba’ rope as quickly as possible. The other man had the sense to help me, and it was not long before we had got it disentangled and were hurrying down-stream. Guided by an occasional cry of despair from the drowning smuggler, we eventually located him—a ragged bundle of arms and legs bumping from rock to rock as the swift current whirled him down.

Luckily the stream swept round a pronounced bend a little way below our camp. The swirl of the current round the corner washed him into slightly calmer waters, and by the time we caught him up we found that he had managed to cling to a large slippery rock projecting out of the water not very far from the shore. For the moment he was fairly safe, but we had no time to lose. After the rough handling that he had undergone he was bound to be nearly exhausted; he was not likely to be able to hold on for long.

Our arrival on the nearest point of terra firma heartened him a little, but he continued to moan plaintively without paying much attention to the advice and instruction shouted by Mirza. At length, by dint of what sounded like some very forcible language, Mirza got him to understand what he had to do. Our plan was simply to throw the rope across the stream a little above him in the hope that the current would carry it on to his rock, or at any rate within his reach. All he would then have to do would be to grasp it firmly and be dragged ashore.

After several unsuccessful casts we managed to float the free end easily within his grasp, but for some time he could not summon up the courage to let go of his rock—even with one hand. I fully sympathised with him; the rope was bobbing about in a most elusive manner, and the rock was the kind of rock one has to hold with two hands or not at all. However, he had got to do it, so we all swore at him in various tongues till he did. There was a nasty moment of suspense as he let go his hold and slithered back into the foam. We could not see whether he had caught the rope or not, but a reassuring tug proved that he was safe. Five minutes’ hard work by the shore party and we had him hauled up on dry land, bruised, battered and breathless, but not permanently the worse for his dip.

“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.” During our struggle with the river we had quite forgotten the rather strained relations which had arisen within our party, but no sooner had the excitement subsided than I tackled Mirza on the subject of the ‘dirty work’ which had undoubtedly been afoot.

He did not attempt to deny it.

“Young men are fools, Sahib,” he candidly admitted. “They have not travelled as much as I have. They do not understand that if a sahib says he will not report us to the police, he will not do so. Every day they have said, ‘Why not kill him and say that he had an accident?’ I told them that those were foolish words, but they would not listen to me.”

“You are right to call it foolishness,” I answered. “No doubt they could tell a good story of an accident, but many questions would be asked. If one of your party arrived in India with his arm chopped off by a ‘kukri,’ that would be rather a difficult matter to explain. Perhaps one of you might not arrive at all. I am a light sleeper, as they saw tonight, and a ‘kukri’ is a handy weapon.” Mirza nodded gravely.

“Do not worry, Sahib. There will be no more of such foolishness. I will see to that. We will trust you not to tell the police what you have seen—at any rate for many years. Perhaps it will be better if we part as soon as possible. In two days we arrive at Darcha Sumdo, the first village of Lahul, where I have a friend who owns yaks. I will arrange for him to transport your baggage into Kulu. We will depart from there before dawn, so that, when you wake up, you will not see us any more. It will be better for you and for us that you should not know which way we go into Chamba.”

So we arranged matters. Though I did not relax my nightly precautions during the rest of our journey, I had a feeling that Mirza would be as good as his word. What he said to the other men I can only guess, but for the last two days of our ‘trek’ they were a very shamefaced pair, slinking about the camp and avoiding my eyes as much as possible. On the whole I was not sorry to see the hovels of Darcha Sumdo and the first tree since leaving the Indus. Once more I was in touch with the civilised world—with policemen and coroners’ inquests, and with all the other useful institutions for the prevention of ‘arranged accidents.’

That night I settled up with Mirza and he bade me an almost tearful farewell. When I awoke next morning they had vanished without a sign to show which way they had gone.

...........................................

I cannot help hoping that they disposed of their cargo successfully, and that they are all now enjoying a ripe old age somewhere in Sin-kiang.

[1]This is from an 1872 poem by Augustus De Morgan called Siphonaptera (Siphonaptera being the biological order to which fleas belong).