Although not absolutely, I am, practically, a teetotaller, as I seldom require stimulants, but on that particular occasion I would have given all the money I possessed to have a glass—or, better, a bottle—of stout! But, alas! the nearest bottle of stout was a great many days’ journey from there. Chökti, the native liquor, was the only stuff procurable, and I more than jumped at the offer when the chieftain suggested that we must drink some to be revived.
Now, there is nothing a Shoka admires more in a foreigner than appreciation of the national chökti—an appreciation they seldom get, for chökti is, indeed, the vilest concoction a human mind can conceive or a human throat swallow.
When the Shoka and his torch disappeared we listened from the door with ever-increasing attention to noises of dangling keys being tried, one after the other, into a lock. Then came the snapping sound of the opening padlock, next the loosing of the iron chain which is ever used in bolting Shoka doors. Reproachful noises from the household, interrupted in their sleep, and remonstrative cries of female relatives, could be heard at intervals; [[215]]then a long silence, some rattling about, and at last the chieftain reappeared, triumphantly nursing a huge jug of the “reviver.”
“Will you drink it here or down in your tent?” he inquired, with a twinkle in his eye.
“In the tent,” I replied; and we all went down to where my camp had been pitched. My men sprang out from all sides on hearing my voice, especially several of them who, not expecting me back that night, had thought fit to occupy my tent.
In a few moments the camp was alight with several blazing fires, there being plenty of fuel at this place, and from the village a string of figures with torches were running down, bringing food, more fuel, milk, and vegetables. The natives of Go were indeed most thoughtful and polite.
I had marched continuously for twenty-two and a half hours, covering over forty miles, the entire time over most difficult ground and at such great elevation that when I sat down upon my blankets I felt quite exhausted. Nor did devouring—the word eating is hardly expressive enough—several pounds of rice and meat and potatoes and plum-pudding [[216]]and milk and chökti make me feel any better. My appetite was insatiable, and no sooner was my head laid on the pillow than I was fast asleep. Oh, what a lovely sensation to go to sleep when you are so tired! [[217]]
CHAPTER XX
We were already getting to lower elevations—the village of Go being only 10,577 feet. We had to the west of us the great Nanda Devi, the highest mountain in the British Empire, 25,660 feet; three pyramidal peaks, with rock exposed in vertical streaks right up to the summit. The central peak is Nanda Devi itself, the next highest peak being 24,379 feet, according to Trigonometrical Survey measurements.