# In the Forbidden Land/Chapter XXXI

    An attempt that failed—A resolution—A smart Shoka lad—The plucky Chanden Sing proposes to accompany me—Mansing the leper becomes my servant's servant.
THE hour fixed for my flight was 9 P.M. Five men had been induced to follow me by the offer of a handsome reward.
At the hour appointed no single one of them had put in an appearance. I went in search of them. One man had purposely injured his feet and was disabled, another pretended to be dying, the others positively refused to come. They were shivering with fright and cold.
"Kill us, sahib, if you like," they implored of me, "but we will not follow you."
At 3 A.M. all attempts to get even one man to carry a load had proved futile. I had to abandon the idea of starting.
My prospects became more gloomy than ever. Another march back towards the cold and dreary pass by which I had entered Tibet!
"You are depressed, Mr. Landor," remarked the doctor.
I admitted the fact. Every step backwards was to me like a stab in the heart. I had wished to push on at all costs, and it was only in consideration of my good and kind friend, the doctor, that I had reluctantly refrained from making my way by force. My blood was boiling. I felt feverish. The cowardice of my men made them absolutely contemptible, and I could not bear to see them even.
Immersed in my thoughts, I walked quickly on, and the rugged way seemed short and easy. I found a suitable spot for our next camp. Here before me, and on every side, stood high snowy mountains; there, in front, towered that same Lumpiya Pass by which I had crossed into Tibet with such high hopes. I detested the sight of it on the present occasion; its snowy slopes seemed to mock at my failure.
Whether it is that storms invariably come when one is depressed, or whether one gets depressed when storms are coming, I am not here prepared to say, but the fact remains that, before we had time to pitch our tents, the wind, which had been high all through the afternoon, increased tenfold. The clouds above were wild and threatening, and snow soon fell in feathery flakes.
"What are you going to do?" inquired the doctor of me. "I think you had better return to Garbyang, get fresh men, and make another start."
"No, doctor. I will die rather than continue this backward march. There will be a far better chance if I go alone, and I have resolved to start to-night, for I am convinced that I shall find my way over the range."
"No, no, it is impossible, Mr. Landor," cried the doctor, with tears in his eyes. "That must mean death to any one attempting it."
I told him that I was quite determined.
The poor doctor was dumbfounded. He knew that it was useless to try to dissuade me. I went into the tent to rearrange and reduce my baggage, making a load small enough to carry on my back, in addition to the daily kit and instruments.
Whilst I was making preparations for my journey, Kachi Ram entered the tent. He looked frightened and perplexed.
"What are you doing, sir?" inquired he hurriedly. "The doctor says you are going to leave alone to-night, cross the mountain range, and go to Lhassa by yourself."
"Yes, that is true."
"Oh, sir! The perils and dangers are too great, you cannot go."
"I know, but I am going to try."
"Oh, sir! Then I will come with you."
"No, Kachi. You will suffer too much. Go back to your father and mother now that you have the opportunity."
"No, sir; where you go, I will go. Small men never suffer. If they do it does not matter. Only great men's sufferings are worth noticing. If you suffer, I will suffer. I will come."
Kachi's philosophy touched me. I ascertained beyond doubt that he meant what he said, and then decided to take him.
This was a piece of luck. Kachi Ram had five bosom friends among the young Shoka coolies. They were all friends of the Rambang, and in the evenings in camp they often used to join and sing weird songs in honour of the fair maids of their hearts, whom they had left on the other side of the Himahlyas.
Kachi hurried away in a state of feverish excitement. He was back in a few minutes.
"How many coolies will you take, sir?"
"None will come."
"Oh, I will get them. Will five do?"
"Yes," I murmured incredulously.
My scepticism sustained a shock when Kachi returned, buoyant, saying in his peculiar English:
"Five Shokas come, sir. Then you, sir, I, sir, five coolies, sir, start night-time, what clock?"
"By Jove, Kachi," I could not help exclaiming, "you are a smart lad."
"'Smart,' sir?" inquired he sharply, hearing a new word. He was most anxious to learn English, and he had a mania for spelling. "'Smart!' What is meaning? How spell?"
"S-m-a-r-t. It means 'quick, intelligent.'"
"Smart," he repeated solemnly, as he wrote the newly-acquired word in a book which I had given him for the purpose. Kachi was undoubtedly, in spite of some small faults, a great character. He was a most intelligent, sharp, well-meaning fellow. His never failing good humour, and his earnest desire to learn and to be useful, were quite refreshing.
My luck seemed to have turned indeed. A few minutes later my bearer, quite unaware that any one would accompany me, entered the tent, and exclaimed in a disgusted manner:
"Shoka crab, sahib! Hunya log bura crab. Hazur hum, do admi jaldi Lhasa giao." ("The Shokas are bad. The Hunyas are very bad. Your honour and I, we two alone, will go quickly by ourselves to Lhassa.")
Here was another plucky and useful man anxious to come. He professed to have no fear of death. He was the type of man I wanted. How true the poor fellow's protestations were I learned at a later date!
Chanden Sing was a man of strong sporting proclivities. His happiness was complete when he could fire his rifle at something, though he was never known to hit the mark. He had been severely reprimanded and punished by me only a few days before for wasting several cartridges on kiang (wild horse) three miles distant. Ordinary work, however, such as doing his own cooking, or keeping my things tidy, was distasteful to him, and was invariably passed on to others.
Mansing the leper, being unfortunately of the same caste as Chanden Sing, became my servant's servant. The two Hindoos constantly quarrelled and fought, but at heart they were the best of friends. The bearer, by means of promises, mingled at intervals with blows, eventually succeeded in inducing his protégé to join in our new plan, and face with us the unknown dangers ahead.