Three Years in Western China / A Narrative of Three Journeys in Ssu-ch'uan, Kuei-chow, and Yün-nan

by Sir Alexander Hosie

A FATIGUING JOURNEY.

According to the record of stages which I had procured in Ma-pien, we were still a three days’ journey from the Yang-tsze; but so many difficulties were crowding around us—no food, and my horse-boy very sick—that I determined to make a forced march and avoid at least one day of misery. When we left Ting-nan-pa on the morning of the 11th of July, I at once abandoned my chair, proceeded with my escort on foot, and, after a brisk walk of four hours, reached the hamlet which was marked on my list as the end of the stage. It was a dismal place, and without waiting for my followers, who were still miles in our rear, I pushed on to the next stage. I was duly warned that the road was difficult, but the traveller in this land is accustomed to prevarication, and invariably finds it hard to elicit the truth.

For some distance east and south-east, the road was all that could be desired for a Chinese road, and I was beginning to chuckle to myself at the exposure of the imaginary difficulties, when it descended to the right bank of a stream which we had struck and crossed early in the morning. Here it was studded with huge boulders, over which we had literally to crawl. After an hour of this work, I stopped to allow my men to catch us up. When they arrived they were bursting with anger.

Having breakfasted off a couple of boiled Indian corn cobs, I followed my tactics of the morning and went ahead with my escort. There is no language strong enough to describe the road that we had then to follow; it wound with the right bank of the stream through a mountain gorge and ultimately descended into a stony plain, through which we made our way to the market-town of Chung-tu-ch’ang, the end of the stage. I arrived, dead beat, at five o’clock in the afternoon, after a walk of thirty miles over a frightful road and under a broiling sun. The whole caravan did not turn up till long after dark; my chair was battered, torn, and tattered; and my horse and mule were hopelessly lame. The only thing that saved us from utter collapse was the knowledge that we were only one short stage from the left bank of the Yang-tsze, where our overland journeying would probably be at an end.

With as light hearts as we could muster, on the morning of the 12th of July we left Chung-tu-ch’ang and the stream which flows behind it, and struck south-east and south over high hills. To the north towered confused mountain ranges, peak rising behind peak, dark and cloud-capped as we passed. On reaching the southern edge of an undulating plateau we looked into a deep ravine, down which flowed the stream; and far away to the south-east a yellow spot could be made out at the base of a dark mountain range. “What is that yellow spot?” I asked the keeper of a solitary inn shaded by a large banyan, just under the brow of the plateau. “That is the Chin Chiang,” was the welcome reply—the Golden River, the upper waters of the Yang-tsze. For a long time we sat under that shady banyan, indulging recklessly in rice-broth to strengthen and cheer us in our hour of joy. There was no laggard now; down the steep mountain side we hurried to the stream, and followed its right bank for four miles to the town of Man-i-ssŭ, which clings to the steep face of the left bank of the Golden River, and is about fifty miles higher than the highest point reached by the Upper Yang-tsze Expedition in 1861. Here, after a vain search for suitable night quarters, we engaged three small boats which were moored under the town, and dropped down river for a distance of twelve miles to the town of Fu-kuan-ts’un on the right bank and within the province of Yün-nan.

To my surprise, I found that the Yang-tsze is the boundary of the provinces of Ssŭ-ch’uan and Yün-nan to within a short distance of the mouth of the Hêng River, which enters it opposite the town of An-pien, on the left bank, sixteen miles west of Sui Fu. Fu-kuan-ts’un was crowded with agents buying up native opium, and it was only with the assistance of the local authorities that I was able to secure a small room in an inn. At the back, however, I soon discovered an outhouse which I much preferred to the room, and where I was removed from the glassy eyes of crowds.

PREPARING TO SHOOT THE RAPIDS.

Two courses were now open to me—to proceed overland to P’ing-shan Hsien and there take junk to Sui Fu and Ch’ung-k’ing, or to risk the descent of two dangerous rapids in a boat from Fu-kuan-ts’un. I decided to adopt the latter alternative; but, as trade so far west is insignificant and boats do not attempt the descent unless heavily laden, I had to wait three days till sufficient cargo had been collected for the craft which I had engaged. It was so hot on shore that I spent the night of the 15th on board, for the double purpose of catching any stray breeze on the river, and of being able to start at daylight on the morrow.

Our boat was of considerable length, deeply laden, and fitted with long sweeps at both ends, weighted with large stones to balance the outlying portions. At daylight we shipped a special crew of ten men, including a pilot, to help us down the rapids. They took entire possession of the fore part of the boat, while the regular crew, also numbering ten, were relegated to the stern, to work the sweep and a side spar which four men kept pumping up and down in front of the sweep. The pilot was a small wizened man of about sixty, with grizzled beard and moustache, and a keen piercing eye. His crew of nine—all young active fellows—at first took to the oars, the bow sweep being fastened to the deck by a noose. Six men hung on the stern sweep, and four worked the side spar. The descent was comparatively easy for twelve miles as far as Shih-ch’i-ch’ang, a market-town on the Yün-nan side, where we moored above a rapid, and my followers, with the exception of my writer, personal servant, and one of the soldiers who had special instructions never to lose sight of me, took eager advantage of the skipper’s order to go on shore. I also landed my horse and mule.

Casting off our moorings, we soon slid into the Chi-kan-shih, which is a long confused mass of water stretching across the whole breadth of the river. Currents rush in all directions, causing waves and whirlpools. The moment we entered the rapid, the pilot shouted out the order, “To the bow sweep!” Seven of the oars were quickly thrown aside, and the seven rowers with the pilot clung round the sweep. With his left hand on its butt end, the pilot gave his orders to the steersmen by means of an old fan which he carried in his right, for the noise and hissing of the waters drowned his shrill voice. The difficulty was to keep the boat’s bows with the stream through the currents and whirlpools. This we accomplished, shipping only a little water.