I was now again in Bias, a portion of the country practically ceded that year by the British Government to Tibet. In fact, Tibetan emissaries had been in all the villages—Gungi, Nabi, Ronkan, and Kuti—imposing upon the natives in every way, claiming taxes and proclaiming Tibetan sovereignty. [[190]]
At Kuti, where I arrived, as usual, in the middle of the night, owing to the long marches we did daily, I had the surprise and pleasure of meeting Nattalì again, one of the strongest-willed, noblest-minded, pluckiest, and sweetest little ladies I have ever met. She was a Kutial Shoka, and as pretty as they make them. Her grace of manner, her inconceivable thoughtfulness and absolute purity of thought were enough to put to shame many a woman of more civilised countries.
Being a lady of wealth, for a Shoka—for her husband was one of the big traders of the district—she owned the finest house in Kuti. She would not hear of our remaining under canvas, and insisted on evacuating the house to let us occupy it. Not only that, but the poor thing sat up half the night to prepare sweets and all sorts of luxuries for our benefit, and I had a great struggle the next day—even the sweetest woman can be obstinate—to make her accept a sufficient remuneration for her trouble.
Calling Two Followers lost in the Storm
Both Tibetan emissaries and men from the British Political Agent were hiding in the village in order to attempt wrecking my expedition and stirring the natives up against me; in fact, the people were most turbulent in the morning, and I [[191]]thought we should come in for a good fight. We had to knock about some of the villagers, who seemed morose and inclined to give trouble, and at one moment it looked as if a general battle might result. Stones were thrown at us, and we thought we had better disperse the crowd before it got too formidable. While my men pounded away on some of the more excited folks and drove them back, Nattalì stood by me and gave her rebellious countrymen such sonorous cracks on the head with a heavy stick—heavens! was she not quick with her hands!—that I had to sit down on a stone, in convulsions of laughter. Then she even persuaded a number of Kutials to enter my employ and accompany me. Others who refused to come she called cowards, spat upon them, and again gave them a taste of the stick. I liked her very much for that.
A relative of hers, whom she particularly warned to be faithful to me, proved himself one of the most hard-working and devoted followers I have ever had.
I well remember her, the day we left. She, with a great many villagers, came to accompany us to the boundary of their village, a high point from which an extensive view is obtained of the upper [[192]]course of the Kuti River along which we were to travel. Having bade us a melancholy good-bye—for she had a presentiment that we should have great trouble before us—she sat herself upon a rock, resting her placid little face upon her hands, and she remained watching us until we were out of sight. Every now and then we waved our hands at her, and her little arm waved a parting salute against the bright line of the sky. That was the last we saw of Nattalì.
By a most remarkable coincidence, as I sat down in my London rooms to jot down these words for publication—now five years later,—as I was writing the word “Nattalì” upon the paper a letter from India was handed to me. On opening it, it contained the sad news that Nattalì was dead.
