“Eight to ten days! Are you mad? Did you not obey my orders? Did I not tell you expressly to take barley for 2½ months?”
“I brought a supply with me which was enough for the journey to Khotan.”
“Did I not tell you that I was not going to Khotan by the ordinary route, but by roundabout ways which would demand at least two months?”
“Yes, Sahib, I have acted wrongly,” answered the old man, and began to sob. Abdul Kerim was an honest man, but he was stupid, and he had not the great experience of Muhamed Isa.
“You are caravan bashi, and the duty of a caravan leader is to see that there is sufficient provender for the journey. When the ten days are over, our animals will starve. What do you mean to do then?”
“Sahib, send me with some animals to Shahidulla. I can be back again in a fortnight.”
“You know that everything that happens in Shahidulla is reported to the Amban of Khotan. The Chinese must know nothing of our intentions.”
My first notion was to dismiss Abdul Kerim at once and to write to the Hajji Nazer Shah for more provender, which might be brought up on hired animals. But what would they think in western Tibet and Ladak if I sent for more provender from Leh when I was barely eight days’ journey from Shahidulla, which lies on the direct road to Khotan? My whole plan would be betrayed and must fail. I should be stopped by the first nomads, perhaps by the English whom I had so happily escaped hitherto. It was only necessary to forbid the natives to supply me with provisions and baggage animals. And if I procured all we wanted in Shahidulla, the Amban of Khotan would send word to Kashgar, whence a telegraph line runs through Asia to Pekin, where His Excellency Na Tang proved so absolutely immovable when the Swedish Minister Wallenberg had given himself so much trouble to obtain for me permission for a new journey through Tibet. Up here in this desolate valley my position was strong. We had sneaked quietly and cautiously through British territory without exciting suspicion. But as soon as we came into contact with the outer world we should be caught.
I sat in my tent all the evening, considering the matter from all sides, and measured the distances on my map with compasses. We were about 100 miles from my camp No. 8 of the preceding year, where the grass was so good. So far we could travel without the least difficulty. But beyond we had 430 miles more, to the district on the Tong-tso. However, before we came there we must meet with nomads and grazing land. The horses, indeed, would be lost, but the Tibetan mules were, so Gulam Razul said, accustomed to shift for themselves, and they were not given barley. The first step was to reach the free open Chang-tang and get out of this frightful mousetrap, the Shyok valley, which was always taking us further north-north-west. Even if we had to sacrifice everything and creep on all fours to the nearest tent, I would not give in: I would not depart a hair’s breadth from the original plan.