The Mandala of Sherlock Holmes - Jamyang Norbu [53]
We rode silently out of the garden. I turned round in my saddle to see Lurgan's dark outline against the comfortable glow of the open cottage door. He raised his right hand in farewell. I shivered a little, as much because of the penetrating chill of the foggy morning as at the realisation that once more I was leaving comfort and security to face the hardships and perils of the unknown. As I have confessed before, I am an awfully fearful sort of man —which is a serious detriment in my profession — but somehow or the other, the more fearful I become, the more dam' tight places I get into.
Yet fear at least performs the useful function of making one careful. I had taken a number of precautions to ensure that anyone taking undue interest in our activities would not learn very much. Even our silent, stealthy departure on this dark morning was one of my attempts to 'muddy the well of inquiry with the stick of precaution,' as they would say in Afghanistan.
Our small khafila wended its way out of Chota Simla on to the Hindustan-Thibet Road, planned and commenced in 1850 by Major Kennedy, secretary to Sir Charles Napier who completed the conquest of the Punjab and Sind. This redoubtable feat of Imperial road building majestically traverses the lofty barriers of the high Himalayas for two hundred and three miles to end at Shipki la on the Thibetan frontier.
Gradually the darkness was dispelled, though the clammy mist clung cheerlessly to the cold mountainside. The indistinct shapes of our animals and riders merged like wet inkstains with the dark outiines of trees and bushes, while the muffled clip-clop of shod hooves, the creak of strained leather, the steady breathing and occasional snorts of our patient beasts filtered so faintly through the mist that they seemed like sounds from some half-forgotten dream.
'Lha Gyalol Victory to the gods!'
The deep voice of Kintup, riding in the lead, rolled back to us. This Lamaist invocation, generally shouted by Thibetans at the start of a journey, or at the top of a pass or mountain, was taken up softly by his co-religionist, Jamspel, our Ladakhi cook. I rode beside the lanky figure of Sherlock Holmes, muffled in a sheepskin-lined Ladakhi robe, and sitting awkwardly astride his small hill pony.
'Well, Sir,' I ventured, 'we begin our quest.'
' "Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare current!" Horace is not too reassuring about the benefits of travel, but let us pray that our passage over these mountains will provide us more inspiration than he got from his sea voyage.'
From Simla, the firstday's journey towards the interior of the mountains is usually Fagu, a distance of fourteen miles. Here, and for several stages farther, as far as the road lies through British territory, there are dak bungalows provided by the government for the accommodation of travellers upon the payment of a small fixed sum per day. Though often in bad repair, and therefore very uncomfortable in rainy weather, these houses are a very great convenience, as they enable travellers to dispense with the carriage of tents.
The road from Simla to Fagu followed the course of the main range, not always on the very crest of the ridge, but seldom at any great distance from it. About four miles from Simla there was a sudden increase in the elevation of the range, and at the same time it turned very abruptly towards the southeast. The road ascended \he steep face of the ridge in a series of zigzags. Near the top of the ascent it suddenly surfaced from under the thick fog to present us a dawnlit view of the remarkable peak of Shali, right across the valley in the northeast, its bold