Alice awoke on the morning after her arrival at Chung Li’s house to hear goats bleating and, for a second, couldn’t remember where she was. Then she recalled the nature of her mission and her heart sank. Considered now, with some of the indignation that had prompted it receded, it loomed as something quixotic, with success improbable and, indeed, danger quite certain. Why the hell had she embarked on such a ridiculous journey?
Then, as she lay back on the straw-filled pillow, she recalled the sad landscape of the Tibetan bodies strewn, half frozen, after the so-called ‘battles’ and she saw again the desperate waving of Major Bretherton’s arms as the current took him away. Yes, little chance of success but, dammit, it was worth a try!
She washed with the little tablet of soap she had brought with her in the bowl of cold water provided, dressed and tentatively walked down the stairs. Chung Li was sitting by what appeared to be a peat fire in the main sitting room but, on seeing her, he rose, bowed briefly and left the room. His wife bustled in, tongue out in greeting, and indicated that Alice should sit at the table.
Tea was produced and a kind of porridge, which was sweet and nourishing, followed by coarse bread and some form of meat dripping which was excellent. Alice thanked her and asked, ‘Sunil?’
The woman nodded and within moments Sunil had arrived to sit by her side. ‘Have you had breakfast?’ asked Alice.
‘Oh yes, memsahib. I been grooming horses.’
‘You are a splendid chap, Sunil. Thank you.’ She took a spoonful of porridge. ‘Have you had chance to talk to your uncle?’
Sunil frowned. ‘Yes, I tell him what you want. To be taken to meet the big lamas here and maybe even Dalai Lama. He say Dalai is away and not possible to see him anyway. Nobody see him. He don’t know about the boss lamas. He is going to take advice.’
Alice met his frown. ‘Hmm. I’m not sure that’s a good idea. The fewer people who know about me being here the better. But I suppose we have no choice. We are in the hands of Chung Li.’
‘Yes, miss. I think he want to help but I am not sure.’
Alice looked at him sharply. ‘Why aren’t you sure?’
Sunil lowered his eyes. He was clearly embarrassed.
‘I don’t know, memsahib,’ he said, studying the floor. ‘I have feeling …’ His voice tailed away.
‘Yes, go on.’
‘I have feeling that he don’t like British much. There are stories about us killing Tibetans on march into this country …’
Alice nodded. ‘Well, that’s certainly true. But, you see, that’s why I want to stop the fighting and persuade the lamas to sit down and negotiate with Younghusband Sahib, so that the killing will stop. I am sure I can persuade them. Perhaps I can talk to your uncle myself?’
‘Of course, if you want. I ask when he returns.’
The old man was away for several hours, leaving Alice uncomfortable, with nothing to do but smile at the women, who smiled and bobbed at her in return. She was not at all happy that Chung Li had gone to consult someone on how to answer her request but all she could do was wait and see what would ensue.
She was in the little paddock, with Sunil, feeding the ponies when she heard a commotion in the house. Women’s voices were raised in what sounded like indignation and then she heard male voices replying in what undoubtedly were tones of authority. She hardly had time to exchange a troubled glance with Sunil before four unusually large Tibetans with long hair and with sheathed swords hanging from their belts burst through the door, followed by Chung Li’s wife and one of his daughters with tears running down their faces.
‘Khampas!’ The word came from Sunil who stood, his eyes wide, as two of the warriors roughly seized Alice, pinned her arms behind her back and pushed her towards the little gate in the paddock. Sunil shouted something to them in Tibetan, only to receive a fierce backhanded slap from one of the men, which sent him reeling to the ground.
‘Leave the boy alone,’ shouted Alice and she ducked and tore her arms away and delivered a right-handed punch to the warrior who had hit Sunil. A fierce blow to her head was her reward and, for a moment, she staggered and her ears rang with the force of the blow. Then her arms were roughly pulled behind her and this time bound.
She turned her head but there was no sign of Chung Li and she glimpsed only the two women screaming in protest and a stricken Sunil trying to regain his feet as she was dragged through the gate into the little street.
‘Don’t worry, memsahib,’ she heard Sunil shout. ‘I follow.’ Then a loop was slipped over her head and body, tightened and, with one of the Khampas at the end of the rope, she was pulled through the streets, away from the house of Chung Li.
She had difficulty keeping up with the long strides of the warriors, three of whom now surrounded her and kept pushing and prodding her to keep the pace. The suddenness of it all, the barbarity of the soldiers, contrasting so sharply with the simple kindness of Chung Li’s wife and daughters, brought a complete dryness to Alice’s throat and mouth and she felt as though her tongue had swollen. Her head was still ringing from the blow and she forced herself to keep blinking to stop tears from running down her cheeks.
Stumbling along, being pulled by one giant warrior and closely escorted by the others, she became an object of great interest in the crowded streets, and shrouded women and high-cheeked, pigtailed Tibetan males fell away to give the party passage, a kind of hiss of … what? … interest, resentment, anger? … rising from them.
Alice turned her head to look behind her and thought she glimpsed the hurrying figure of Sunil following but another slap made her turn back.
A jumble of thoughts ran through her brain. Clearly Chung Li had betrayed her to the authorities. It was treachery of the basest sort, given the warm welcome that the man had extended to her and to his nephew. But then, she sighed, treachery and Tibet went together. Curzon had lied when he said that the mission to Lhasa would not be an invasion. Younghusband and Macdonald had not kept their word that the fortress at Gyantse would not be occupied by troops from the Raj. Treachery and Tibet seemed to be analogous.
Alice was getting out of breath now and was forced occasionally to break into a pathetic trot to keep up with her long-striding captors. Her thoughts continued to race. Where were they taking her? Could it be that her request to meet the high lamas was, in fact, being answered? Highly unlikely, given the roughness of the treatment. Then she remembered Simon telling her that two Indian spies sent years ago from Delhi to Lhasa had been unmasked and thrown into a dank jail in the city without trial, where they still languished – if, that is, they were still alive. The Tibetans had a morbid fear of being spied upon. Would she be regarded as a spy? After all, she approach the sacred city in disguise. Her heart sank. What if, after all, Younghusband acceded to the Tibetans’ request and negotiated without entering Lhasa? She would be left alone and forgotten in this medieval city. Forgotten? No, of course not. There was Simon, of course, he would undoubtedly come after her. Not to mention Sunil. If he had been able to follow, he could tell Simon where she was being incarcerated. If, that is, incarceration was what was intended. Feeling the headache growing from the blow she had received and looking at the harsh, primitive faces on either side of her, she couldn’t help feeling that a gentle interrogation was highly unlikely. She sighed and fought back the tears again. Oh, what a damned silly fool she had been to embark on this quest! What sort of arrogance had made her feel that she, of all people, could make a difference to the conflict?
She sniffed and tried to lengthen her stride.
Alice was in no mood to look about her and note her surroundings but the thought did cross her mind that she must be the first European to enter the sacred city of Lhasa for some 200 years – and perhaps the first woman from outside Asia ever to do so. But she could catch no glimpse of the fabled temples; only rough hovels pressing in to form narrow streets.
She was beginning to stagger with the pace she was being forced to maintain when the little party abruptly turned right and then immediately into a dark, closed doorway. The Khampa pulling the rope banged onto a door which creaked open. She was pulled through into a courtyard of beaten earth, hemmed in by stone walls, lined, high up and just under the edge of the timber roof, by a row of unglazed windows, each containing six vertical bars. A most unpleasant smell assailed Alice’s nostrils: human excrement was disgustingly definable but there was something else, less familiar. What was it – despair? Her heart sank further. A prison!
A door was unlocked and abruptly she was thrown through into a dark cell, with light brought only by a barred, open window, set high up in the wall. Immediately, Alice turned and looked into the narrow, implacable eyes of the soldier who had pulled her through the streets.
‘You have the manners of a gutter rat and the face of a pockmarked weasel,’ she hissed.
He raised his hand to hit her again but she forced herself not to duck but to remain sturdily erect, her chin thrust forward, glaring at him. He thought better of hitting her. So, instead, he kicked her in the groin.
Alice bent in pain and staggered back before collapsing onto the stone floor. The man stood looking down on her, his face quite expressionless. Then he turned, went through the door and she heard a key turn in the lock.
Grimacing in pain, Alice shouted, ‘That’s no way to treat a lady.’ Then she let the tears flow.
Curled up, foetus-like, she realised that her hands were still bound behind her back. God! Were they going to leave her like this, bundled and trussed up like a turkey before Christmas? So much for the Buddhist respect for the sanctity of human life! She looked around her as best she could. There was absolutely no furniture of any kind in the room, except a pile of straw pushed into the corner, which is where, she supposed, she was expected to sleep.
But first, to free herself of her bonds. Her hands had been tied by a length of the same rope that had been used to encircle her body. It was of a thick diameter and hemp-like, not, thank God, thin and like a tightly woven cord. She looked around the room. One of the stones in the wall projected a little and she crawled over to it and began sawing at its edge with the rope. It took her at least fifteen minutes but, eventually, the last frayed strand gave way and she could free her hands and rub her wrists.
She stood and examined the door. It was made of heavy wood – perhaps oak – and the lock was set in the usual steel plate and looked completely impregnable. Alice thrust her hands into the pockets of her riding breeches. At least she had not been searched. What did she have that might be of use?
Turning out her pockets, she carefully laid the contents on the floor: a handkerchief, twenty rupees, a small phial of lip rouge – ah, how useful that would be! – and a small nail file. She took the latter to the door but the sharp end did not fit into any of the four sturdy screws that held the steel plate in position and, anyway, they were rusted in and probably quite immovable. The barred window was small – only perhaps a foot long and six inches deep – and set far too high up the wall for her to reach and the cell contained nothing to stand on.
Alice used the handkerchief to wipe away the tears that were starting to flow again. This would never do! She must never give up hope. She sat on the straw then immediately jumped up again in horror. Rats? Carefully, with the nail file she poked among the pile. Nothing, thank the Lord.
Forcing herself to be rational, she considered her position. First of all, what assets did she have? Not exactly a storehouse: just the coins, the handkerchief, the lip rouge and the nail file, and of course the clothing she had put on that morning – bra, cotton vest, knickers, blouse, pullover, woollen socks, breeches and riding boots – and the remnants of the rope that had bound her wrists. Even knotted together it only reached perhaps three feet.
So … could she attack her jailer and stab him with her file or perhaps garrotte him with the knotted rope? Well, she considered gravely, she might stand a chance if he was only four feet tall, of slight build and extremely cowardly … She sighed. The prospects were not exactly encouraging. Her only hope, of course, was that the lamas – or whoever had sent the Khampas to get her – would want to interrogate her; and this would give her a chance of talking her way out of this damned cell.
But what if the lamas never learnt of her existence? Perhaps the Khampas, a law unto themselves, would just kill her out of hand as a spy and remove all trace of her existence? Her heart missed a beat. With a British army virtually on its doorstep, the government of Tibet would surely not take such extreme measures; after all, Simon had told her that the two Indians who had been held in captivity for so long were rumoured to be still alive. But it would be so simple for the Khampas to execute her and deny that she had ever entered their blasted sacred city, so removing the necessity of explaining her arrest and brutal treatment.
Yet … her mind raced. There was Sunil, dear Sunil, who had called ‘I will follow’. Was it him she had glimpsed in the crowd behind as she was pulled through the streets? She couldn’t be sure. But knowing the youth, she was sure that he would feel some sort of responsibility for his uncle’s treachery. He would surely try to find out where she was incarcerated and, at the least, try and find Simon, who must now be only less than fifty miles away.
Yes, there was still hope.
Alice settled herself down in the straw and tried to relax. She began to feel hungry and, even more, thirsty. They surely wouldn’t let her starve to death or die of thirst here, would they? As though in answer, the key grated in the lock and a thickset Tibetan in smock and Chinese-type skullcap stepped through the door and put a wooden cup of milk and a bowl of porridge on the floor.
‘Wait,’ she called as he turned to go. ‘Do you speak any English?’
He said not a word but, his face impassive – did all Tibetans take a course in face muscle control? – turned, slammed shut the door and once again the key turned in the lock.
‘Well thank you, anyway,’ Alice called and thirstily took deep draughts of the milk and began eating the porridge with the wooden spoon provided.
Food and drink brought hope and she lay back in the straw and closed her eyes. The strain of the last hour or so quickly introduced sleep. She did not know how long she slept – her wristwatch she had carefully removed and left with her spare clothing in Chang Li’s house – and it was quite dark when she awoke. But what was it that woke her?
A faint voice was calling something from far away and he or she was repeating it. She stood under the window and strained to hear it. Luckily, whoever was calling was approaching and the voice grew slightly louder but it was clear that the person calling was doing so at little above a whisper. Then it called from under the window: ‘Memsahib, are you in there?’
Alice almost screamed in delight. ‘Yes, Sunil. I am here.’ Then, her eyes on the door, she lowered her voice. ‘Can you hear me?’
‘Oh yes, miss. I hear you. I am so glad to find you.’
‘Oh, Sunil, I am so glad you have. I never doubted you. I presume this is a prison I am in?’
‘Yes. Nasty place, I think. Have they hurt you?’
‘A little, but not much. I can survive. What time is it?’
‘I am not sure. Time when most people are asleep, I think. This busy street so I can only come after dark, when people do not walk it. I did not see where you turn earlier. So I have been walking up many streets and calling up to windows.’
‘You, my dear Sunil, are a jewel. Now, tell me, was it your uncle who betrayed me to the Khampas?’
For a moment, there was no reply. Then Sunil’s voice was even lower. ‘Yes, memsahib. I am sorry. He frightened of Khampa general who is local governor where he lives. He no longer my uncle …’ his voice tailed away.
‘Sunil, I am so sorry. I should never have put him and you in this position. Now, listen. I have to decide what to do. Have they taken all my things?’
‘Yes. They know who you are, I think.’
‘Did they take my Webley revolver and your rifle?’
‘They take your revolver, but not,’ his voice lifted a tone, ‘my rifle.’
‘Good. Now if you go to the room where I slept, in the corner near the window, I lifted a piece of floorboard and hid in there a small handgun I had bought at the India border before we set out. With it I hid a small box containing six rounds of ammunition for it. I doubt if the soldiers would have found it. Do you think you could bring it here tomorrow night at roughly this time, tie a line to it, throw it up through the bars and lower it down to me so you don’t make a noise without anyone seeing our hearing?’
‘Oh, I do that for you, I am sure.’
‘Good boy. Do your uncle and aunt know you have been looking for me?’
‘I don’t know. I not been there since you been taken. I spend time looking for you.’
Alice felt the tears come again at the boy’s loyalty, but she stifled them. ‘Good. I am most grateful. Now go back to them and don’t say that you have found me. Just say that you have spent the time looking. Do not upset your uncle, because it might be bad for you. When you come back tomorrow night, hopefully, I will have made a plan. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, memsahib.’
‘Thank you again for being such a brave and resourceful boy. You will be rewarded, I promise you.’
‘I don’t need reward. I get you out of there. You will see.’
‘I am sure. Now go. Thank you once more and be very careful.’
‘Yes, miss. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Sunil.’
Alice blew her nose, slumped back onto the straw and wiped away the incipient tears. What a great asset this Tibetan youth had turned out to be – and what an unthinking fool she had been to put him in danger and to expect that his uncle would have helped this strange woman from an invading force!
Now, she must think what to do. Thank goodness she had had the foresight to buy the little French handgun to back up the great clumsy Webley revolver! She had no idea of how it could be used in the prison, but it was small enough to be hidden on her person and, if the worst came to the worst, particularly if something horrible – rape or torture – threatened, she could use it to shoot her way out of the prison. But now, she must think of what to do with Sunil. He must not be placed in further danger. Sleep would help, she knew. So she lay down and closed her eyes.
She awoke when the cell door was opened and thrown back with a clang. It was clearly quite late in the morning, for light was streaming through the high window and it illuminated the striking figure that entered and strode towards her. He was very tall – perhaps 6ft 3 ins – and he stood, hands on hips, glowering down on her as she struggled to her feet. The man wore his hair long, so that it fell about his shoulders and down his back, black as a raven’s wing. His face was Mongoloid, with narrow, slit eyes, and he effected a mandarin moustache that hung down either side of a cruel, firmly set mouth. He was dressed in a simple tunic that reached down to the top of his leather boots and a woollen cloak, woven finely with gold thread at the edges, hung from his shoulders.
Behind him were two of the Khampa warriors who had brought her to the jail and a small, thin, elderly Tibetan wearing pince-nez spectacles perched precariously on the end of his nose.
The big man turned and grunted something to the scholarly figure.
The small man cleared his throat and addressed Alice. ‘I shall interpret, madam,’ he said, in precise, clear English. ‘You are either Mrs Alice Fonthill or Miss Alice Griffth. Which is it?’
‘I am both.’ Alice spoke loudly. She felt intimidated by the delegation – particularly by the big man – but she was determined not to show it.
The interpreter shot a quick, uneasy glance at the big man. ‘Madam. You can’t be both. Which are you?’
‘I repeat, I am both. I am married to Brigadier Simon Fonthill, who is serving with the British column, now approaching Lhasa, so in my private life I am Mrs Fonthill. But I am also a newspaper correspondent, reporting on the … er … invasion of Tibet for The Morning Post, London for which I write under my maiden name, Alice Griffith. This situation is not unusual in Europe, I assure you.’
The interpreter adjusted his spectacles and translated for the benefit of the big man, who was obviously a Khampa of some seniority.
The latter frowned and fixed Alice with a glare that seemed to light up his black eyes. Then he spoke, without taking his eyes off her.
‘This is General Kemphis Jong,’ the little man interpreted, ‘he is general in charge of the Khampas in Tibetan army and also governor of this area of Lhasa and surrounding country. He know of your Fonthill. Your man commands British cavalry and has killed many Tibetans.’
Alice swallowed hard. They had obviously gone through her belongings and found the notes that Simon had scribbled to her when away earlier in the campaign. It seemed that Fonthill had become rather notorious in the eyes of the Khampas.
‘My husband is a general in the British army,’ she said, ‘as your governor is in the Tibetan army. He is merely doing his duty. Soldiers are paid to fight. Your general knows that.’
The General grunted when the translation was made. Then, suddenly, without warning, he struck Alice with the back of his hand, sending her sprawling onto the straw. He towered over her and shouted something.
‘He say,’ translated the little man, his eyes wide now behind his glasses, ‘that you here to answer questions, not to argue. You show respect or you will be hurt. Women do not answer back in Tibet.’
Alice remained lying on the straw, her face white. ‘And men of honour do not strike women in England,’ she said defiantly, staring up at the General.
It was clear that the interpreter considered for a moment ameliorating her response, for he paused while he sought for appropriate words, but the Khampa shouted at him to translate and the scholar gulped and did as he was told.
‘Ah.’ The General looked down at her and then barked a command to his Khampas. Immediately, they bent down and dragged her upright, pulling her hands high above her head. Then they frogmarched her to the wall underneath the window and bound her hands together above her head with a rope. One of the soldiers bent down and linked his fingers together, so that the other could step into them and, reaching up, pushed one end of the rope through one of the bars in the window. Then, together, they hauled on the end so that Alice was stretched high against the wall, her toes barely touching the floor.
She groaned, involuntarily, as her arms felt as though they had been pulled from their sockets and closed her eyes, dreading what was to come.
She felt her breeches being undone and roughly pulled down and then one of the Khampas roughly forced her legs apart and pushed his hand between them, wrenching upwards with his fingers. She screeched in pain and the man stepped back.
The interpreter intervened and spoke quickly, obviously now of his own accord. ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘these men are rough barbarians from the east, even the General. They are not like ordinary Tibetans. Please do not antagonise him, or they hurt you. Tell him now that you are sorry.’
‘Tell him to go to hell,’ hissed Alice between clenched teeth and the little man immediately translated – but obviously not her words, for the General grunted and nodded his head. She was allowed to remain hanging, though.
The General spoke again. ‘He say, why you come to Lhasa with this boy?’
At last, a chance for some sort of dialogue! Alice closed her mind against the pain and the shame of the assault and began talking. ‘I have come without the permission of the British Commander or my husband. I paid the boy to take us here because I want to speak to the high lamas who control the government of Tibet. I want to plead with them not to oppose the British any more.’
The General spoke again and the scorn was obvious in what he said.
‘He say, you lie and that you are British spy, come to spy out city before British approach it.’
‘That is not true. Would a British general send a woman to do that work?’
She could see that the shaft had struck home and she continued quickly. ‘I have witnessed all of the fighting between the British and their troops and the Tibetan army and seen the slaughter of the Tibetans and reported on it back to my newspaper, which is one of the most important in Britain.’
‘I know of The Morning Post and have read it,’ the interpreter said quickly, not without evincing a touch of pride.
‘Then you will know that I criticise the killing by the British. If the British army is opposed again before they reach Lhasa, then there will be even more Tibetans killed. I came to plead with the lamas to allow the army to approach peacefully and to sit down with them in the city to discuss a peace treaty between the two countries, like civilised people.’
She allowed the translation to take place and then continued quickly, before the pain made tears pour down her cheeks. ‘Either way, if I see the lamas or not, if I am killed or violated again, then the British General and my husband will exercise fierce retribution upon the General here and upon the Khampa people. I can promise you that,’ she ended fiercely.
The scholar made the translation at some length and the General stood listening, hands on his hips, his legs stretched wide. Alice observed him between half-closed eyes, praying that the torture would not be resumed.
The big man remained silent for a while. Then made his reply. ‘He say we leave you here like this for a while, for your impudence,’ translated the scholar. ‘Then we go and get the boy and make him tell us truth. We will return.’ The General nodded curtly, turned on his heels and the quartet stamped out of the cell, the little interpreter looking over his shoulder, blinking behind his spectacles and almost, Alice thought, with tears in his eyes. Then the door clanged shut.
Her first thought was one of relief that the rape that she feared was not to follow – at least not immediately. Then, quickly, came the feeling of impotent shame that she had been violated so rudely and left, hanging now, her toes just touching the ground, but with her jodhpurs and knickers pulled down to her ankles. Now came the pain, renewed.
Her calves and her hamstrings felt that they were being stretched to breaking point as they attempted to take the strain of her weight, and her shoulders, armpits and arms seemed to be on fire. She pushed back her head and gritted her teeth. For God’s sake, she had been strung up for less than five minutes. If the pain was this bad after a few minutes, what would it be like for … what? Hours? How long would they leave her like this and how could she bear it? Then she recalled the General’s words: ‘going to get the boy and make him tell us the truth’.
This time the tears poured down her cheeks as she realised that Sunil – her only hope – was about to be arrested and, no doubt, tortured, all because of her foolishness and arrogance. She sobbed at the thought and that she would now almost certainly never see Simon again. Unless … Had he got her second note? Surely, he would come after her? Her thoughts raced. But how to find her in this strange, labyrinth of a city? She moaned out loud in despair and pain.
Alice tried to force her aching legs to summon up a little energy to jump to take the strain off her arms, but they did not, could not, respond. She shouted to the jailer in the hope that she could promise him something, anything, if he would cut her down. But her voice echoed back to her from the walls of the cell.
She had no idea how long she had hung in this way, for blessedly, she had slumped into some sort of loss of consciousness, when she heard a voice, speaking very low, saying, ‘Very sorry, madam. Forgive me if I do this.’ And she felt a hand fumbling for her breeches at her ankles.
Opening her eyes, Alice realised that the little interpreter had returned. Immediately she attempted to kick him, but the power was not there. Then she realised that the cell door had been closed and that the little man seemed to be alone.
‘I trying to, ah, adjust your clothing, madam,’ he was saying and he somehow succeeded in pulling her knickers to cover her nudity, then hoisting her breeches to her waist. ‘There,’ he said, buttoning them, ‘it did not please me that they did that to you.’
‘Thank you,’ Alice whispered through dry lips. Her tongue now felt as though it had swollen to fill her mouth. ‘Do you have any … any water?’
‘Ah yes. I think of that.’ The interpreter adjusted his spectacles and fumbled in a little bag he carried and produced a small earthenware jar, removed the stopper and held it to Alice’s lips.
Greedily, she gulped until the precious water ran down her chin. Carefully, the little man wiped it. ‘They intend to leave you to hang like this without water or food for, I think, two days,’ he whispered. ‘I think this terrible thing to do, so I come back and tell the jailer that I had been sent to … what is the word? Ah yes. Interrogate you. So he let me in. Look I bring little meat and bread too. Can you eat?’
‘Yes.’ Alice licked her lips. ‘But can you cut me down first? This is very … it is very painful.’ She cursed inwardly as she felt the tears slip down her cheeks again.
‘Oh, ah, I am very sorry. But cannot do that. General would kill me if I interfere with his punishment. I am sorry. He probably kill me anyway, if he know I am here now, with food. Here, take a little bread with our butter.’
Alice shook her head in frustration. ‘I am very grateful. But can’t you possibly do something … find something to put under my feet? The pain is very, very strong. Something to take the strain away, you see.’
The interpreter pushed his pince-nez back up his nose and looked around the cell. ‘Ah yes,’ he muttered, ‘but nothing here.’ Then: ‘Ah, yes. I think I see little stool outside. I get it. But be quiet now. Jailer must not hear.’
He was away for what seemed like hours to Alice, but then he returned, carrying a little three-legged stool. ‘It was in corridor,’ he said. ‘I steal it. I hope it is not missed. Here … I lift your legs.’
He did so and, at last, Alice was able to stand, flat on her heels. The relief was immediate and sent from heaven, but she staggered on the precarious platform as the strain was taken from her calves and she lost her balance. The little man had to hold her for a moment.
‘Oh, thank you, so much,’ she gasped. ‘That is such a relief. Is there … do you have … any more water?’
‘Yes, of course. Here.’ He lifted the jar and she drank again. ‘I think I could take a little bread and whatever you have now,’ she said.
He fastidiously took out meat from his haversack, then two pieces of bread, and placed the meat within the bread and held it to her lips so that she could eat. Alice munched away as best she could, hungrily now, for she had not eaten since the porridge and milk given to her, what? Probably twenty-four hours ago.
‘I am very grateful to you, sir,’ she said eventually. ‘Pray tell me your name.’
The interpreter gave her a wan smile. ‘Oh, madam. I do not think it relevant to give you my name. I am just glad to be of some small assistance to you. I teach at one of the monasteries here. Unfortunately, the General took me away from this work to interpret for him here. Although,’ his smile widened a little, ‘perhaps that was fortunate for you.’
‘Oh, it certainly was.’ Alice’s voice dropped and became full of concern. ‘Tell me, do you know if they have found Sunil, the Tibetan youth who came with me to Lhasa?’
‘No, I do not. The soldiers go to get him but I do not know if they find him.’
‘Oh, I hope to God they do not. Tell me also, do you know how many jailers or soldiers are posted here in this prison?’
‘Yes. It is used also as a kind of barracks, I think. But it is really small building and has only one jailer, I think, but about ten of the Khampas, who act as General’s bodyguards, live here. General lives in Governor’s house, a little way up street.’
For the first time for hours, Alice felt a little ray of light open up in her mind. Only ten guards …! Perhaps, if Sunil returned with her handgun, she could … Then despair descended again. How stupid of her to think that! The guards would almost certainly find Sunil and … She frowned in agony at the thought of them torturing her splendid, brave companion.
The interpreter looked over his shoulder. ‘I think I must go now because jailer get suspicious.’ He held up the jar. ‘More water?’
‘Yes please.’ She took several sips, carefully this time.
He replaced the stopper. ‘There is a little left. I hide this in straw in case they cut you down and you can reach it.’ He tucked it away. ‘I go now, lady. I hope they cut you down soon.’
Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘Not as much as I do. Thank you, whoever you are. You have been kind.’
He nodded and the little smile appeared from behind his pince-nez. ‘It was good to practise my English. I learn it in Calcutta, you know.’
‘Yes, er, how interesting.’ She tried to smile but couldn’t. If he was going to stay and chat, why the hell couldn’t he cut her down! ‘Goodbye, and thank you again.’
He bowed, carefully put away the paper in which he had brought the bread and meat, tucked it in his bag and walked to the door, obviously left unlocked, and was gone. Alice sucked in her breath. Would her keeper notice the precious stool and take it away again? But he did not bestow a glance on her, shutting the door with a clang and locking it.
Alice sighed and then inhaled quickly as she remembered that the interpreter had said that the Khampas were going to leave her hanging for two days … two days! Thank God the stool was making her position less of a torture. But, two days …! How much time had passed since the General’s visit? She had no idea and she wished she had asked her little benefactor. She screwed her head around to try and look up at the window. Was the light fading? Yes, almost certainly. So perhaps, Sunil would come soon? Ah no! He was almost certainly captured and was probably being tortured at this very moment … Two days! She shook her head in confusion and frustration. Her sense of time had slipped away completely. Perhaps there would be only one more day to go. Perhaps.
She must have slipped again into some sort of sleep for she jerked awake suddenly. What was it? Someone calling? It came again: ‘Memsahib, are you still there? Memsahib?’
‘Oh, thank God. Sunil. Is that you?’
‘Yes, miss. I keep calling but you don’t answer. I thought they take you.’
‘I am sorry. But, dear boy, the Khampa soldiers went to get you. Did they not find you?’
A note of pride came into the youth’s voice now, almost scorn. ‘Ah no. They clumsy people. Aunt hear them coming and she hide me in grain store with my rifle. They do not find me, but …’ His voice tailed away.
‘Yes, Sunil. Go on.’
The boy suddenly sounded much younger, as though the years had suddenly been torn away from him. He went on, but his voice was hardly above a whisper and Alice had to strain to hear him. ‘I wait in grain store for long time. Then I creep out, with rifle, ready to shoot Khampas. But I find only bodies of my uncle, my aunt and my cousins. Khampas kill them all. Take off their heads with their swords.’
Alice realised that Sunil was sobbing now and, aching and hitherto conscious only of her own pain, her heart went out to the boy.
‘Oh, Sunil. I am so sorry. I really am. I … I … it is all my fault. I am very, very sorry.’
‘Don’t worry, miss.’ Sunil’s voice was stronger now. ‘I have my rifle. I give you little gun through window and then knock on door of jail. When man comes, I shoot him, get key, let you out and then we run.’
Alice thought quickly. She had promised that when he came she would have a plan. But the events of the past few hours had confused and jumbled her mind. She had no plan – but she quickly resolved that Sunil should be exposed to no more danger.
‘Ah. I think not, my dear boy. Now, listen carefully.’
‘Yes, memsahib.’ He sounded disappointed.
‘Do you happen to have your knife with you – you know, the one which I gave you and which folds?’
‘Yes. I never go without it.’
‘Good. Now, if you look up to the bars on this window you will see that a rope is wound round one of them. Can you see it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think you could climb up and cut through the rope. It is attached to my wrists, you see, and I am virtually hanging from it. It is very painful.’
‘Oh goodness! I kill them for that.’
‘Thank you, but can you get up to the window?’
‘I look. It dirty street here. Full of rubbish. I have to find something to stand on. Back in moment.’
‘Ah, please don’t be long.’
He was not. Within three minutes she felt the rope tighten as his knife blade was hooked under it as it bent around the bar and he began to saw. Then he had severed it and Alice tottered for a moment on the stool and then fell headlong. The fall winded her but the relief on her arms and shoulders was wonderful. She lay for a moment, savouring it.
‘Memsahib. You all right?’
‘Yes, Sunil. From now on you will be known as Sunil the magnificent.’
‘Yes. Good. You want gun now?’
‘Yes, please. Toss it through and then lower it.’
He did so and then the cord was returned so that he could attach the little box of cartridges to it. This too was then thrown through and then lowered.
‘Now, you load gun and then I go and shoot guard. Yes?’
‘No, Sunil.’ Alice stood with her back to the wall under the window and carefully loaded the gun. She spoke to him as she did so. ‘There are eleven men – one jailer and ten soldiers – who live here in this building. As soon as you fired your rifle they would be upon you. Then we should both be killed.’ She looked up at the window.
‘Can you hear me?’
‘Oh yes. I hear you.’
‘I want you to listen carefully and do exactly as I tell you. Do you still have your pony?’
‘Yes, I hide it in the gulley where you wait for me when we first arrive. Khampas take your horse.’
‘Splendid. Now I want you to go from here now – don’t waste any time – find the pony and ride back the way we came. If you go on that main road, ride fast and don’t get into trouble at all, you will eventually meet either Fonthill Sahib, coming to look for us, or the vanguard of the army. I think it will be my husband first. Explain to him exactly what has happened and bring him here.’
‘What you do now, then?’
‘Don’t worry about me. I will be all right now that I have my little handgun. But I cannot hold out here for very long, so you must go quickly. Go now but take great care, Sunil. My life depends upon you.’
‘You sure? I can kill all the soldiers with my rifle. Jenkins bach says I am good shot.’
‘Yes, I am sure. Go now. And thank you, Sunil. You have been my saviour. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye, miss.’
She heard what she thought was a stifled sob, then all was silent in the cell again. Alice held the cold steel of the handgun to her cheek for a moment, as though for reassurance, and sat on the stool, deep in thought. She had absolutely no idea what she would do next, but two things were important: to get Sunil out of danger and to alert Simon about what had happened to her. With luck, Sunil’s ride could accomplish both things.
She worked the mechanism of the gun to slip a cartridge into the barrel. It was a snub-nosed automatic French Chamelot-Delvigne of eleven millimetre calibre, but Alice handled it with affection. She had first come across the little weapon when she was in Egypt, covering the invasion of that country in the early 80s and had been lucky to have found one now in India. It was very small and useless at long range. But it could kill a large man at short range – and she had a large man very much in mind now as she slipped the little weapon into the pocket of her riding breeches.
She fumbled amongst the straw to find the jar of water, drained it and then lay on the straw and eased her aching shoulders. Now all she had to do was wait …