Читать книгу Trans-Himalaya: Discoveries and Adventurers in Tibet - Sven Hedin - Страница 15

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We had scarcely pitched our camp on the west shore of the Pul-tso when Muhamed Isa came to ask for a day’s rest. The grazing, he said, was good, fuel abundant, and the animals needed a little time to recover. I fell in with his wishes the more readily that they fitted in with my own plans—another lake voyage. I intended to go with Robert and Rehim Ali early in the morning across the lake in the direction of a precipitous mountain which lay 56° east of north; then we would sail over to the south bank and pass the night at a mountain 62° east of south. The following morning we expected to reach the north-east corner of the lake, where the caravan would wait for us on the yellowish-green pastureland. We should thus take two days on the lake to cover a distance which the caravan would traverse in one day. We would take with us food, warm clothing and bedding, and a quantity of fuel, that we might not be in such straits as last time. Water was not wanted; the lake water was potable, though it had a rather queer taste.

The lake looked very inviting and picturesque at even, its perfectly smooth mirror lying dark, dreamy, and silent between the mountains capped with eternal snow. Great, reeking fires of dung burned cheerfully among the tents, the men prepared their supper, or mended the pack-saddles, chatting merrily the while; all was quiet and peaceful, and the moon floated, silvery white and cold, among rose-coloured clouds.

79. At Deasy’s Camp.

80. Afternoon Tea in the Open Air.

81. Melting Snow for Drinking-Water.

Then I hear far in the east a droning sound, which swells up rapidly, comes nearer, and changes into deafening thunder, and in a moment a very violent storm sweeps over the shore. I call men to close the opening of my tent. I hear Robert raise a whoop as his airy dwelling flaps about and threatens to split up into shreds. But a dozen men set it to rights again. Then my tent is strengthened with sand heaps and boxes; I am shut in with my brazier, but a small spy-hole is left in the tent opening. The moonshine glistens on the surf of the billows rolling against the shore—a grand spectacle—wild, weird, almost theatrical in its beauty. A storm of unsurpassed violence rushes ruthlessly along. It sounds like express trains rolling through covered stations; it lashes, roars, and howls, and dashes the surf thundering against the beach. The fires, but now flickering so cheerfully, are put out; the spray is spurted out like rockets; I hear Muhamed Isa’s tent flapping about; then the sound of men’s voices is heard no more, only the howling of the storm and the thunder of the waves disturb the silence of the wilderness. If I do but look out of my spy-hole I am almost suffocated by the pressure of the condensed air. Only the yaks delight in such weather; they grunt and snort with pleasure when the long black fringes of hair on their flanks flutter in the gusts.

September 28, however, was clear, the storm had sped off on its course to the west, and the dull splashing of the swell on the beach was all that was left of its fury. Before we were half way along the first line of soundings, the lake was again as smooth as a mirror; it was only flecked with small flakes of foam left behind by the storm. The water had been too thoroughly stirred up to be clear. We took little more than an hour to reach the rocky promontory, sounding on our way a maximum depth of nearly 56 feet. We left on the north a considerable bay which the caravan would have to go round.

After a short rest we continued our voyage to the south-east, and were well helped on our way by a gentle northerly breeze. This time we reached the shore without any adventures and before sunset. We landed with all our belongings. Rehim Ali collected heaps of dry dung, Robert set the camp in order, and I cruised about in the evening breeze till twilight came, and cold and darkness surrounded our bivouac. We sat down by the fire, talked, and cooked. The mince of fried sheep’s brains and kidneys tasted delicious in the open-air. To the west we could see the fires at camp No. 23. Later in the evening a strong east wind rose up again, and the waves dashed against the shore barely two yards from us. We rolled ourselves in our furs and gazed into the fire; the head is never so full of projects and aspirations as when the eyes follow the play of the blue flickering flames and the fiery forms that arise in the glow.

But the storm increased in violence, we could hardly keep the fire alive, and soon we crept under the boat, which we used as a shelter without taking it to pieces. We all three lay in this improvised tent, and strengthened it with the sail and two tarpaulin cases, which covered the halves of the boat on the march, and which we had brought with us to protect our night wraps and beds in bad weather. Above us hung a lantern which we extinguished when we were ready; now the moon shone on the sail, the tempest howled and moaned round the boat, and the surf soon lulled us to sleep.

The minimum thermometer marked 14°; it is always warmer near lakes. We were early on our feet, a good fire put new life into us, and we breakfasted beside it, the sun looking on. Our berth for the night was restored to its element, the baggage was packed in, we stepped on board and steered eastwards to the entrance of a passage which divides the Pul-tso into two basins. Its breadth is about 65 yards; in the southern basin the water was often almost red with small crustaceæ. We crossed it south-westwards, and found depths of barely 46 feet. Then a strong breeze came up from the north-west, and the waves splashed and lapped against the boat. If we only got a south-west wind we could easily sail to the appointed rendezvous. We would wait a little by the shore. It curves gracefully, and has four terraces, each about two yards high.

On the sail back a new line was sounded, the maximum depth being about 60 feet. Now we had a favourable wind on the quarter, let down the weather-board, hoisted the sail, and danced along to the strait. As we came up to its eastern point, a rider with spare horses and several men on foot came in sight. It was Muhamed Isa coming to meet us. Now Rabsang relieved Rehim Ali, but he was so awkward with the oars, that we preferred to take back our old oarsman. We said good-bye to the rescue party, and steered northwards over the northern basin of the lake, where the depths were 10 feet at most. Unfortunately the wind veered to the north, so that we were thoroughly chilled through during the two hours’ sail to the north shore.

Muhamed Isa had brought us sad news: two more horses and a mule had died at camp No. 23; in the evening another horse died. Otherwise the caravan at camp No. 25 was sound and lively. Therefore we were the more astonished to see a large fire at the abandoned camping-ground in the west. The caravan had started towards eight o’clock in the morning, and now it was four o’clock in the afternoon. Not a soul had remained behind in camp No. 23, and yet there was the fire; we saw flames and smoke, which hung like a great veil over the shore. Rehim Ali thought that the post from Ladak had caught us up at last.

“No, that is impossible; a post-runner cannot travel so far and carry his rations with him.”

“But the camp-fire must have gone out immediately after the departure of the caravan. A fire does not burn so brightly with no one to attend to it.”

“The smoke of camp No. 25 can be plainly seen from camp No. 23. If the post had reached camp No. 23 it would not have stayed there a minute, but would have hurried on to join us before night.”

“Yes, Sahib, but perhaps the messenger is so exhausted that he is signalling for help.”

“May it not be Changpas?” remarked Robert.

“Yes, certainly, it may be Tibetans, sent from the south to order us to stop, or at least to watch us, and report to the nearest headman.”

“Master, perhaps we shall have to stop sooner than we think. What is to happen then?”

“I do not think that the Tibetans can interfere with us so far to the north; they cannot force us to turn back. At the worst we shall have to pass eastwards through Central Tibet to China or Burma, as Bower did.”

“Look, now, how it smokes; this great fire must mean something.”

“Yes, it is a regular will-o’-the-wisp, a Saint Elmo fire. The gods of the lake have lighted it to lead us astray.”

“I believe it is the post, but the fire looks uncanny,” said Rehim Ali, and rowed with all his might.

“Do not disturb yourself. If it is the post we shall hear of the messenger before evening; I believe that the camp-fire has not gone out, but has smouldered on in a sheltered spot all day long; when the wind changed, some reserve heap of dung caught fire, and, fanned by the north wind, it has burst into flames.”

At six o’clock we were home again. After I had taken a much-needed meal I summoned Muhamed Isa and Sonam Tsering to a consultation.

“How many horses have we left?”—“Forty.”

“How many mules?”—“Thirty-four.”

“Are they in fairly good condition?”—“No, Sahib, not all; four of my horses and six of Sonam’s are at the point of death, and five mules.”

“We shall, then, have more losses soon?” “Yes, alas! But to save all we can, the strongest animals must now have maize and barley; the sickly ones must forage for themselves till their hour comes. They are certainly doomed.”

“That is barbarous; give them at least something. Perhaps some may be saved.”—“We must be very sparing with the forage, Sahib.”

The management of the caravan-bashi was prudent, but cruel.

At seven o’clock the storm came. It was the third evening we had had violent east winds, a direction exceedingly infrequent in Tibet. It came like a stroke, and put an end to all our peacefulness, stopped all conversation, interfered with all kinds of work, extinguished the camp-fires, blew sand and dust into my tent, and prevented the tired animals from grazing; for they will not feed in a storm. They place themselves with their tails to the wind, keep all four legs as close together as possible, and hang their heads. So they remain standing, and wait till it is quiet again. They had to wait all night long, and perhaps, sleepy and heavy-headed, dreamed of the heartlessness of men and the peaceful, sunny slopes at Tankse and Leh. In the evening Muhamed Isa and I inspected them. The moon shone brightly, but its cold, bluish light made the piercing wind seem more icy than usual. The animals stood, like ghosts, so motionless in the night, that one would think that they were already turned into ice. Not the cold, but the wind, kills our horses; all my people say so. Winter was coming down upon our mountains in all its severity. The rarefaction of the air and the scanty pasturage were the worst troubles.

The wind whistled mournfully round the corners as I went to sleep, and the same sound fell on my ear in the morning as Tsering, muffled up in a thick fur coat, brought the brazier in. A dreary morning! Everything in the tent was buried under a thick layer of dust and drift sand, and I was thoroughly frozen before I had dressed. The horses and mules had gone forward eastwards, but I did not start till nine o’clock—in a furious storm. Just outside the camp the last horse that had perished lay cold and hard as ice. Tsering told me that he was scarcely a stone’s throw from the body when the wolves had already crept up to feast on it.

The ground is good, sand, dust, and fine gravel. Afterwards the soil becomes brick-red. One cannot see far, the air is hazy and the sky overcast, but as far as the sight can carry, only low mountains are visible. One or two brooks, almost frozen up, run out of side valleys on the north. We slowly ascend to a pass, whence the country eastwards seems just as level and favourable as hitherto. Here I am following Rawling’s route; his map corresponds to the actual conditions in the smallest details.

It is quite a different thing to ride against the storm over rising ground, and to have the wind on one’s back going downhill. We work our way through the wind, which penetrates our furs, and in ten minutes are quite numbed. I can scarcely use my hands for mapping work; now and then I thrust them into the sleeves of my coat, lean far forwards, and let the horse find its own way. Two more horses die before the evening; a third was led nearly to the camp; he looked fat and sleek, but he tumbled down.

When I rode into camp I had had more than enough of this terrible day. A bright fire was burning in the fort of provision boxes, by which we chatted awhile, waiting for Tsering. The camp fort shrank up day by day at an alarming rate, but the animals died so quickly that the loads were, nevertheless, too heavy. But it was Muhamed Isa’s opinion that enough mules would be left till we got to the Dangra-yum-tso, and that no baggage need be left behind. In case of necessity the boat and a couple of tents might be sacrificed. Empty provision chests were consumed at once as firewood. Undoubtedly we should reach the distant lake in a state of utter helplessness. Without assistance we could proceed no further. Then the Tibetans could easily stop us. We were therefore a prey to great anxiety, which increased every day.

“If the animals founder at the same rate as at present, we shall not reach the nearest nomads.”

“Sahib, the strongest are still alive.”

“Yes, that is always your consolation; but in a few days some of the strongest will be dying.”

“The wind kills them. If we had only a few days of calm weather!”

“There is no prospect of that at this season of the year. This storm has now lasted 27 hours. Then come the winter storms from the south-west.”

On October 1 I wrote in my diary: “What will be our experiences in this new month? At eight o’clock the tempest still raged, and the ride to-day was worse than before.”

Flat, open country. Only one or two hills of red sandstone and conglomerate with green schist—otherwise no hard rock. The Deasy Group, towering to the south, seems nearer and nearer. The horse, No. 27, lies in a pool of frozen blood, cold and bare, for the pack-saddle has been removed for the sake of the hay. During the night three horses had stampeded, and were searched for by Muhamed Isa and three Ladakis. Stupid animals, to tire themselves out for nothing! Some unaccountable restlessness seemed to have driven them from the spot where they were unloaded. The poor things perhaps thought they could find better grass than our hard-heartedness allowed them.

We approached a very small freshwater lake, by which both Wellby and Deasy had rested. A fourth of its surface was frozen over, and on its west bank the storm had reared up a wall of ice fragments a foot high. An icy brook descended from the Deasy Group into the lake. The water of the lake was cooled down below freezing-point; a few more hours of perfect calm and the whole lake would be frozen over. On the bank Sonam Tsering found three old tent-poles with the iron rings still on them. He could not remember that Rawling had left them here: probably they were a memento of Wellby’s visit.

Tundup Sonam had killed an antelope, and for my dinner I was served with fragrant shislik roasted on a spit. Tsering knew his work; he had been cook to Beach and Lennart, whom I met in Kashgar in 1890, and was more skilful than “the black fellow,” as Muhamed Isa contemptuously styled the late Manuel.

The Lamaists among my Ladakis told me in confidence that they prayed every evening to their gods for a lucky journey. They were just as eager as myself to reach Shigatse and the holy monastery Tashi-lunpo, where the Tashi Lama resides. For then they would receive a title of honour, just as a Mohammedan becomes “Hajji” when he has been in Mecca. They would willingly pay their Peter’s pence, seven rupees for butter for the altar lamps, nay, would give up a whole month’s pay as a present to His Holiness, the Tashi Lama. Their aim was to bring a pilgrimage to a successful termination; mine to fill up as many blanks as possible in the map of Tibet. We must succeed! Heaven befriend us!

No one minded that we had not a single man as escort. Yet with every day we were getting nearer to inhabited country, and were advancing into a land which had recently (1904) been at feud with its powerful neighbour on the south. The Tibetans were ever hostile to Europeans, and after the slaughter at Guru and Tuna they would probably be still more bitter against them. We had neither passport nor permission to enter the forbidden land. How should we prosper? Our excitement was always increasing. Should we be received as open enemies, and after all wish ourselves back with the wolves on the banks of Yeshil-kul?

October 2. Thirty-six degrees of frost in the night—and we hear nothing of Rabsang! Has anything happened to him? Shukkur Ali is sent back along the caravan track with meat, tea, and bread. A mule, which can no longer keep on its feet, is killed in the camp. When the wind falls occasionally, it is singularly quiet. The landscape is still monotonous—a boundless, gently rising plain. North and south the two mountain ranges with their snow-peaks still run on. Grass and yapkak grow on all sides. Hour after hour we ride east-north-east without any change of scenery. I look forward to the moment when we shall turn towards the south-east, but that is far off, for I must first pass round all the region that Rawling explored. The animals will then have still harder work, for we shall have to cross several passes. The ranges run from east to west; meanwhile we are marching between two of them, later on we shall have to go over them. I examine the animals daily with great anxiety, and fix my hopes on the strongest, the select troop which will hold out to the last. How depressed I feel when one of them slips its collar.

At camp No. 28, beside a salt pool, the animals are mustered as usual. They understand the summons when the corn-bags are ready. Then they are turned out to graze. Empty provision sacks and pack-saddles serve as cloths to protect the animals from the cold at night. For the mules small triangular pieces are cut to bind over their foreheads, where they are supposed to be most susceptible to cold. Outside the Ladakis’ enclosure stand our twenty goats and sheep, tied head to head into a compact group, so that they may keep one another warm.

This day the moon rose blood-red over the mountains in the east. It became quickly paler the higher it rose, and the snowy mountains shone as white as the steam of an engine. The evening was calm, and the tent was easily heated in camp No. 28. Yet the temperature sank to −8°—and Rabsang was still missing. Had the wolves torn him in pieces?

Next morning, however, he turned up in Shukkur Ali’s company, but without the horse. He had followed the trail of the wandering animal for a long distance, and in the sand on the shore of the small lake had been able to read the story of a tragic incident with almost dramatic vividness. The tracks showed that the horse had galloped madly about, pursued by a troop of wolves on either side. They had chased their victim on to a narrow strip of mud ending in a point. There he had found only one track of the horse, which disappeared in the slowly deepening bed of the lake. But the wolves had left a double track—they had come back. They thought to fall upon the horse on the landspit, where he could not run further, but they had made a mistake. Rabsang maintained that their confusion was reflected in their backward trail. The helpless horse, driven to desperation by the wild and hungry jaws opened wide to devour him, plunged into the water, preferring to drown rather than fall into the clutches of his persecutors. Not a drop of blood could be seen. If he had attempted to swim across the lake, he must have died of cramp; if he had turned back to the shore, the wolves would have waited for him and not have retired into the mountains. He was a hero, and now I felt his loss doubly; he was one of the best in the caravan, a Sanskari, and had long carried the heaviest boxes of silver. The picture of his bold spring into the water, and of his desperation bordering on frenzy, long haunted my imagination, when I lay awake at night, and I thought of the horse on which Marcus Curtius plunged into the abyss.

The day’s march took us further along the same even plain, where at length every trace of vegetation ceased. At camp No. 29 there was, alas! no pasturage, and so we had to lead the horses to the foot of the mountains where grass grew sparingly.

October 4. We continue our journey to the east-north-east, and there is not the slightest change in the country. Like a squirrel in a revolving cage, we go on and on and yet find ourselves always in the same country; north and south the same summits appear, and their profiles change but slowly. Deasy named this great open longitudinal valley “Antelope Plain.” Rawling traversed its south-western portion in two directions, and my route runs between them on the left bank of its very broad, but now waterless, drainage channel. We suppose that the salt lake, which Wellby skirted on the south, must lie to the east-north-east, but it is not yet visible. Yellow grass again appears on both sides, and the camp is pitched beside a small basin of splendid spring-water. As soon as the animals are relieved of their loads and let loose, we notice that a third begin to graze at once, another third stand resting with drooping heads, and the remaining third lie down immediately. The first are the best and strongest horses, the last those that are most exhausted. Among these is horse No. 10, which has to be killed next morning; he is entered in the list of dead as No. 25.

Muhamed Isa does not now set out before half-past eight in the morning. He has noticed that the animals feed with a better appetite in the early hours after sunrise. The broad, hard river-bed is an excellent road, quite a highway, descending with an extremely slight gradient. During the last days the needles of the aneroids have remained almost stationary at the same figure. To the north we have still the Kuen-lun, sometimes as masses of dark rock, sometimes with snow-capped, rounded summits.

At one o’clock I always make a short halt with Robert and Rehim Ali to read the meteorological instruments. The journal is kept by Robert with the greatest care. I draw a panorama and take bearings, while our horses stray about grazing. We take no food at that time, for we eat only twice a day—at eight o’clock in the morning and six in the evening. Yet the short mid-day rest is very welcome. We are by that time thoroughly frozen; we can more easily keep ourselves warm on the ground than in the saddle, where we are fully exposed to the wind.

We have not seen a drop of water all day long, and the caravan is evidently looking for a spring, for we see scouts making off from time to time to the right and left. At length they discover a large pond, and there the tents are set up. We have marched lately about nine miles a day—we cannot do more.

We had scarcely set out on the morning of October 6 when the camping-ground was inspected by wolves on the look-out for another horse. They follow us as faithfully as the ravens, and perhaps receive reinforcements from time to time. Strict orders are issued that the night watch must be responsible for the animals, and will be punished if we suffer any loss from the wolves. The six ravens also still stick to us. They settle when we encamp, they set out with us, and follow us all day long with their hoarse croaking.

We pass over the river-bed, now containing water and ice, but still the low hills hide the expected lake. Otherwise the ground is level, so level that only the languid movement of the stream shows in which direction the land dips. Yellow sand-whirls in the north-west indicate the approach of a storm, which comes upon us out of a clear sky. Within half an hour it passes into an easterly storm, a typical cyclone. Worn out with the cold we arrive at camp No. 32.

The puppies are now quite big, and up to all kinds of mischief. It is recorded against the white puppy that she has torn up one of my map-sheets. Fortunately, none of the fragments is wanting. Tsering also found a toothbrush in front of my tent, which the silly dog must have considered superfluous. The brown puppy bit in two a hydrometer, which was lying about in its leathern case. Their education is very defective, but they are foundlings from the streets of Srinagar, and we cannot therefore expect much of them. They have not the slightest notion of discipline, and they do not obey when they are called. But when Tsering brings the dinner they come to heel at once, put on a show of amiability, and force themselves to the front by some means or other. They are not of much use; they keep my feet warm at night, for then they lie rolled up together on my bed.

Forty-five degrees of frost in the night! That was perhaps why I had such a horrid dream: a whole host of dark Tibetans came to meet us, and drove us back to the north. The water in the basin and the ink are lumps of ice.

Now we have left Rawling far behind us, and Wellby and Malcolm’s is the last route which has been traversed in this region. We are still following the same valley as that expedition.

Our store of yak meat was just at an end when Tundup Sonam killed an antelope. A second, unfortunately, he only wounded, and it escaped on three legs. One of our wolves was pacing about on a hill. He had closely watched the chase, and the wounded animal would probably become his prey.

Muhamed Isa, in his thick grey winter suit and with his pipe in his mouth, moves about, and is guiding the caravan up between the hills when we overtake him. We ascend to the summit of a hill. A white line appears, and below it a bluish-green stripe which gradually increases in dimensions. After a few minutes we have the salt lake we have been looking for immediately below us, for the hills slope steeply to the southern shore. Now the Ladakis commence one of their finest march songs in soft, melting tones; they are glad to have reached this lake which I have spoken of constantly, and, like myself, remind themselves that we have reached another stage on the long journey to Dangra-yum-tso. To the north-west the scenery is grand, with the great mountains, their snow-capped peaks and great glaciers. Continuing the direction of the sea westwards is flat land white with salt, and there white eddies dance, whirling along the dismal shore.

East-north-east the longitudinal valley is as open as before; there Wellby travelled. We can now, if we wish, turn aside to the south-east without again coming in contact with Rawling’s route. There new country awaits us, the great triangle between Wellby’s, Bower’s, and Dutreuil de Rhins’ routes. It had been one of my most cherished hopes to cross, at least once, the great white patch which bears on the English map of Tibet nothing but the one word “Unexplored.”