The first event of importance after our arrival at Tuna was the receipt, on January 12, of a message from the Lhasa officials, saying that they wished for an interview. At noon, the time I had appointed, several hundreds of men appeared on the plain below the village. They halted there, and asked that I should come out and meet them halfway. Perhaps unnecessarily, I refused this request. It was bitingly cold in the open plain, and I thought the Tibetan leaders might have come into my camp, where I had said I would receive them, and where a guard of honour was ready. However, I sent out the indispensable and ever-ready Captain O’Connor to hear what they had to say, and on his return he replied that they once more urged us to return to Yatung, but afterwards stated that they were prepared to discuss matters there, at Tuna.

This constituted a distinct improvement on the attitude adopted by them at Phari, and their general demeanour was much more cordial, according to Captain O’Connor. But they told him that if we advanced and they were defeated, they would fall back upon another Power, and that things would then be bad for us. In conversation with the Munshi they said that they would prevent us from advancing beyond our present position, and they repudiated our treaty with the Chinese, saying they were tired of the Chinese, and could conclude a treaty by themselves.

Encouraged by the fact that they showed some little signs of a desire to discuss matters, I determined now to make a bold move to get to close quarters with them. I was heartily tired of this fencing about at a distance; I wanted to get in under their reserve. And I thought that if we could meet and could tell them in an uncontentious and unceremonious manner what all the pother was about, we might at any rate get a start—get what the Americans call a “move on.” It was worth while, it seemed to me, to make a supreme effort to get this intrinsically small matter settled by peaceful means, even if a very considerable risk was incurred in the process; and I wished particularly to see them, and to judge of them, in their own natural surroundings. I was constantly being called upon by Government to give my opinion upon the probable action of the Tibetans, but so far I had only seen them in our own camps, and they had steadily refused to admit me into theirs. I therefore determined on the following morning, without any formality, without any previous announcement, and without any escort, to ride over to their camp, about ten miles distant, at Guru, and talk over the general situation—not as British Commissioner, with a list of grievances for which he had to demand redress, but as one who wished to understand them, and by friendly means to effect a settlement. I was only too well aware that such an attempt was likely to be taken by the Tibetans as a sign of weakness; still, when I saw these people so steeped in ignorance of what opposing the might of the British Empire really meant, I felt it my duty to reason with them up to the latest moment, to save them from the results of their ignorance.

Captain O’Connor and Captain Sawyer, of the 23rd Pioneers, who was learning Tibetan, accompanied me, but we did not take with us even a single sepoy as escort. On our way we were met by messengers, who had come to say that the Tibetan chiefs would not come to see me at Tuna, and I was all the more pleased that I had left Tuna before the message arrived.

On reaching Guru, a small village under a hill, we found numbers of Tibetan soldiers out collecting yak-dung in the surrounding plain; but there was no military precaution whatever taken, and we rode straight into the village. About 600 soldiers were huddled up in the cattle-yards of the houses. They were only armed with spears and matchlocks, and had no breech-loaders. As we rode through the village they all crowded out to look at us, and not with any scowls, but laughing to each other, as if we were an excellent entertainment. They were not very different in appearance from the ordinary Bhutia dandy-bearers of Darjiling or the yak-drivers we had with us in camp.

We asked for the General, and on reaching the principal house I was received at the head of the stairs by a polite, well-dressed, and well-mannered man, who was the Tibetan leader, and who was most cordial in his greeting. Other Generals stood behind him, and smiled and shook hands also. I was then conducted into a room in which the three Lhasa monks were seated, and here the difference was at once observable. They made no attempt to rise, and only made a barely civil salutation from their cushions. One object of my visit had already been attained: I could from this in itself see how the land lay, and where the real obstruction came from.

The Lhasa General and the Shigatse Generals—we had become accustomed to calling them Generals, though the English reader must not imagine they at all resembled Napoleon—took their seats on cushions at the head of the room and opposite to the monks. We were given three cushions on the right, and two Shigatse Generals and another Shigatse representative had seats on the left. Tea was served, and the Lhasa General, as the spokesman of the assembly, asked after my health.

After I had made the usual polite replies and inquiries after their own welfare, I said I had not come to them now on a formal visit as British Commissioner, or with any idea of officially discussing the various points of difference between us; but I was anxious to see them and know them, and to have an opportunity of freely discussing the general situation in a friendly, informal manner. So I had ridden over, without ceremony and without escort, to talk matters over, and see if there was no means of arriving at a settlement by peaceful means. I said that I had been appointed British Commissioner on account of my general experience in many different countries, that I had no preconceived ideas upon this question and no animus against them; from what I had seen of them, I was convinced there was no people with whom we were more likely to get on, and I hoped now we had really met each other face to face we should find a means of settling our differences and forming a lasting friendship.

The Lhasa General replied that all the people of Tibet had a covenant that no Europeans were ever to be allowed to enter their country, and the reason was that they wished to preserve their religion. The monks here chimed in, saying that their religion must be preserved, and that no European, on any account, must be admitted. The General then went on to say that, if I really wanted to make a friendly settlement, I should go back to Yatung.

I told him that for a century and a half we had remained quietly in India, and made no attempt to force ourselves upon them. Even though we had a treaty right to station an officer at Yatung, we had not exercised that right. But of recent years we had heard from many different sources that they were entering into friendly relations with the Russians, while they were still keeping us at arm’s length. One Dorjieff, for instance, had been the bearer of autograph letters from the Dalai Lama to the Czar and Russian officials at the very time when the Lama was refusing letters from the Viceroy of India. We could understand their being friendly with both the Russians and ourselves, or their wishing to have nothing to do with either; but when they were friendly with the Russians and unfriendly with us, they must not be surprised at our now paying closer attention to our treaty rights.

The General assured me that it was untrue that they had any dealings with the Russians, and the monks brusquely intimated that they disliked the Russians just as much as they disliked us; they protested that they had nothing to do with the Russians, that there was no Russian near Lhasa at that time, and that Dorjieff was a Mongolian, and the custom of Mongolians was to make large presents to the monasteries. They asked me, therefore, not to be so suspicious.

I said it was difficult not to be suspicious when they persistently kept us at such a distance. I then addressed them in regard to religion, and asked them if they had ever heard that we interfered with the religions of the people of India. They admitted that we did not interfere, but they maintained, nevertheless, that it was to preserve their religion that they adhered to their determination to keep us out.

As the Buddhist religion nowhere preaches this seclusion, it was evident that what the monks wished to preserve was not their religion, but their priestly influence. This was the crux of the whole situation. And it entirely bore out what Mr. Nolan, the Commissioner of Darjiling, had observed many years before^[27]—that it was “the breaking of the beggars’ bowl” that was in question, the loss of these presents from Mongolians and others.

So far the conversation, in spite of occasional bursts from the monks, had been maintained with perfect good-humour; but when I made a sign of moving, and said that I must be returning to Tuna, the monks, looking as black as devils, shouted out: “No, you won’t; you’ll stop here.” One of the Generals said, quite politely, that we had broken the rule of the road in coming into their country, and we were nothing but thieves and brigands in occupying Phari Fort. The monks, using forms of speech which Captain O’Connor told me were only used in addressing inferiors, loudly clamoured for us to name a date when we would retire from Tuna before they would let me leave the room. The atmosphere became electric. The faces of all were set. One of the Generals left the room; trumpets outside were sounded, and attendants closed round behind us.

A real crisis was on us, when any false step might be fatal. I told Captain O’Connor, though there was really no necessity to give such a warning to anyone so imperturbable, to keep his voice studiously calm, and to smile as much as he possibly could, and I then said that I had to obey the orders of my Government, just as much as they had to obey the orders of theirs; that I would ask them to report to their Government what I had said, and I would report to my Government what they had told me. That was all that could be done at present; but if the Viceroy, in reply to my reports, ordered me back to India I should personally be only too thankful, as theirs was a cold, barren, and inhospitable country, and I had a wife and child at Darjiling, whom I was anxious to see again as soon as I could.

This eased matters a little. But the monks continued to clamour for me to name a date for withdrawal, and the situation was only relieved when a General suggested that a messenger should return with me to Tuna to receive there the answer from the Viceroy. The other Generals eagerly accepted the suggestion, and the tension was at once removed. Their faces became smiling again, and they conducted me to the outer door with the same geniality and politeness with which they had received us, though the monks remained seated and as surly and evil-looking as men well could look.

We preserved our equanimity of demeanour and the smiles on our faces till we had mounted our ponies and were well outside the camp, and then we galloped off as hard as we could, lest the monks should get the upper hand again and send men after us. It had been a close shave, but it was worth it.

I had sized up the situation, and felt now I knew how I stood. I knew from that moment that nowhere else than in Lhasa, and not until the monkish power had been broken, should we ever make a settlement. But it was still treason to mention the word “Lhasa” in any communication to Government, and I had to keep these conclusions to myself for many months yet, for fear I might frighten people in England who had not yet got accustomed to the idea of our going even as far as Gyantse.

While I perceived that the monks were implacably hostile, that they had the preponderating influence in the State, and were entirely convinced of their power to dictate to us, I perceived also that the lay officials were much less unfriendly, less ignorant of our strength, and more amenable to reason, and that the ordinary people and soldiers, though perhaps liable to be worked on by the monks, had no innate bad feeling against us. Hereon I based my hopes for the security of the eventual settlement.

A few days later the Lhasa General, known as the Lhi-ding Depon, in company with a high Shigatse official and the General who had met me at Yatung, paid me a visit at Tuna. The Lhasa General announced that, like me, he was most anxious to come to a friendly settlement, and therefore he would ask me to withdraw to Yatung, where discussions could then take place in the most amicable manner. I told him I did not wish to say anything disagreeable to himself personally, as he had always been polite to me, but I would ask him to let his Government know that the time was past for talk of this kind, and to warn them that they must take a more serious view of the situation; they must realize that the British Government were exceedingly angry at the treatment that I, their representative, had received, and were in no mood to be trifled with. Far from going back, or even staying here, we were going to advance still farther into Tibet, and I expected to be met both by the Amban and by a Tibetan official of the highest rank, who would have sufficient authority to negotiate a proper treaty with me in the place of the one concluded by the Amban, which the Tibetans repudiated. I had waited for six months for a proper representative to be sent to meet me, but even now none had arrived.

I heard from him later that he had communicated to the Lhasa monks the substance of this interview, but they had stated they could make no report of my views to the Lhasa Government until we had retired to Yatung.

Two Captains were sent to me on February 7 with a message that I must retire to Yatung, and I sent the usual reply verbally by them and in writing by the hands of my Tibetan Munshi. This latter communication was returned, with the customary intimation that letters were not received.

Two more messengers arrived on the 10th, asking me to fix a date for withdrawal, and threatening trouble if I remained. These threats and rumours of attacks, and reports of the monks having set apart five days to curse us solemnly, continued for the following weeks, and caused us to keep well on the lookout: double sentries were posted at night, and, on account of the cold, relieved every hour. It was wearisome and anxious work, but we felt quite confident of ourselves, and in the end no attack was made.

General Macdonald and the main body were also having a perhaps equally trying time. Communications had to be kept up across two high passes right through the winter; a flying column had to be ready to proceed at any moment to our assistance at Tuna; and supplies and transport had to be collected for our advance as soon as possible to Gyantse. On the Tang-la there was never any great depth of snow, and what snow fell soon cleared away; but there were terrible winds, and the convoys sometimes crossed in blinding, icy blizzards. In February General Macdonald himself came over with one of these convoys for a short inspection. On the passes into Sikkim there was much more snow, and they were occasionally closed after an unusually heavy storm. Still, fairly continuously the transport corps plied across them, and supplies accumulated in Chumbi.

All this time we had been in considerable anxiety in regard to Bhutan. During our advance through Chumbi we had Bhutan on our right flank. The Bhutanese were of the same religion as the Tibetans, and closely connected with them. It was possible, therefore, that they might take the Tibetan side, and it was of the highest importance that we should secure at least their neutrality. Mr. Marindin, the Commissioner of Darjiling, had written to ask them to send someone to discuss matters with him; but the answer, which was received as we were passing through Chumbi, was not wholly satisfactory, so I sent another message, with the result that an official of some standing, the Trimpuk Jongpen, arrived at Phari, and was brought on by Mr. Walsh to see me at Tuna.

He was a rough, jovial person, and when I said that I merely wished to know on which side the Bhutanese intended to place themselves, that, as they were of the same religion and race as the Tibetans, we could quite understand their siding with them, but only wished to know plainly, so that we could make our arrangements accordingly, he replied most emphatically that the Bhutanese would be on our side. I said that these were mere words, and he said that he would put them on paper and seal it, which he did. I said that that was, after all, only a piece of paper. Would he show his friendship by deeds? Would he help us with supplies? And he readily promised, and gave us permission, on payment, to make a road up the Amo-chu. Like the Nepalese on our left flank, these Bhutanese on our right were most whole-souled in their support, and it greatly strengthened my position subsequently to be able to advance into Tibet arm-in-arm with Nepal and Bhutan.

This Trimpuk Jongpen at once became a useful ally. I explained to him the whole of our case with the Tibetans, pretty much as I had explained it to the Tibetans in my speech at Khamba Jong. He asked me whether he might see the Lhasa delegates, explain our views to them, and try and induce them to come to a settlement, for he said his Government were most anxious that a peaceful settlement should be arrived at. I had no hope that he would be able to effect anything, but I thought that the fact of his attempting to mediate might be the means of bringing the Bhutanese Government into closer relation with us. I therefore consented to his seeing the Lhasa delegates, and asked when he proposed to go to Guru. His answer surprised me. He said he found there was no one there of sufficient rank for him to visit them, so he would send over and invite them to come and see him. The Lhasa General, another General, and one of the Lama representatives did come and see him, and this incident furnished sufficient proof of what we had all along contended—that the men whom the Lhasa Government had sent to negotiate with me were of an altogether too insignificant position for me to meet in serious negotiation.

After the first interview the Bhutan Envoy came to me to report the result. He said he had repeated to them what I told him, and the Lhasa delegates had replied that Yatung was the place appointed for discussions, and we ought to have discussed matters there; but, instead of that, we came with an armed force to Khamba Jong, and then had come into Chumbi, so they did not believe that we honestly intended to make a peaceful settlement, but they asked what were the terms of the settlement we wished to make.

I told the Envoy that I would willingly go back to Yatung if I thought that by doing so there was the slightest prospect of making a durable settlement with the Tibetans. But, as a matter of fact, we had tried for years to make a settlement at Yatung. Our political officers, Mr. White and Captain Le Mesurier, had met Tibetan officials, and also the Amban, there, but without result. As to what terms we would ask in the settlement, that was, of course, a matter which I should have to discuss with the high official possessed of full powers to negotiate, as soon as one was appointed; but I might say, in general terms, that there were three main points we should want to settle with the Tibetans: Firstly, the boundary with Sikkim; secondly, the regulation of trade and the selection of a more suitable trade-mart than Yatung; and thirdly, the means of communication between ourselves and the Tibetans. The Envoy then returned to the Lhasa delegates, who had been awaiting my reply. On the following day they had a full meeting at Guru to consider it, and the Lhasa General paid another visit to the Bhutan Envoy. The Tibetans said that, as we were in the wrong, having advanced into Tibet, we should retire to Yatung, and then negotiations could take place; but as regards our wish to regulate communications with them, they could only say that no communications would ever be allowed, as it was against the rule of the country.

These negotiations had led to nothing; but one more stone had been turned in our attempt to effect a settlement peacefully, and incidentally the attempt had been instrumental in putting us on good terms with the Bhutanese. I wrote at the time that I was hopeful that from this beginning we might establish more intimate relations with Bhutan, for the Envoy was the first sensible man I had met on that frontier, and there might be advantage in closer intimacy between us. Everything turned out well afterwards. Mr. White twice visited the country and established the best possible relations with the people, and Bhutan is now definitely under our protection.

This was the last attempt to negotiate before we advanced. The old Resident at Lhasa spoke much of coming to meet me, but never came. The new Resident, who had been appointed specially for this work in December, 1902, did not reach Lhasa till February the 11th, 1904, and neither he nor any proper Tibetan negotiator appeared. And we remained patiently at Tuna through all February and March.

The military officers had a poor time, for they had to be so rigorously on the watch, and Colonel Hogge had such a bout of sleeplessness from the effect of the high altitudes that he had to go for a fortnight’s change to Chumbi, which is only 9,000 feet above sea-level, to give himself the chance of sleeping again, after which he was all right. We had, too, twelve cases of pneumonia among the sepoys, eleven of which, from the altitude, proved fatal. And one poor young fellow in the postal department, Mr. Lewis, had to have both his feet amputated for frost-bite, and eventually died of the effects.

But we had much to employ us, too. Captain Ryder would go off surveying; Mr. Hayden would make geologizing expeditions; Captain Walton would collect every living animal of any size and description he could detect; Captain O’Connor would always be surrounded with Tibetans, of every degree of dirt; and I would spend my days on the mountain-sides, sheltered as much as I could be from the wind, getting as much as I could of the bright warm sunshine of these southern latitudes, and on the whole thoroughly enjoying myself, for the natural scenery was an unfailing pleasure.

Generally the days were clear and bright, but almost invariably at ten or eleven a terrific wind would arise, and blow with fury for the rest of the day. And sometimes mighty masses of cloud would come sweeping up from the direction of India. Snow would fall, and then for two or three days together we would be the sport of a terrific blizzard. The mountains would be hidden, and nothing would be visible but dull masses of fiercely-driven snow, as fine and dry as dust, and penetrating everywhere. For days together the thermometer would not rise above 15° even in the middle of the day. Our camp would be the very picture of desolation. It seemed impossible that the poor sentries at night would ever be able to stand against the howling storm and the penetrating snow, or that our soldiers would ever be able to resist an attack from the Tibetans in such terrific circumstances.

By the middle of March General Macdonald’s arrangements were nearing completion, and I wrote to the new Resident, who had recently announced his arrival, saying that I was about to move to Gyantse to commence negotiations, that I hoped to meet him there, and trusted he would secure the attendance of fully-empowered Tibetan representatives of suitable rank. I asked him to warn the Tibetans that the consequences of resistance to the passage of my Mission would be very serious.

On March 24 General Macdonald left Chumbi, and arrived at Tuna on the 28th, with two 10-pounder guns, one 7-pounder, four companies 32nd Pioneers, three and a half companies 8th Gurkhas, field-hospital, and engineer park.

Colonel Hogge’s patrols had been watching the Tibetans carefully lately. Reinforcements had arrived since I visited Guru, and the Tibetans had built a wall across the road about six miles from Tuna. There was also a considerable force on the other side of the Bam-tso (lake).

On March 31, after we had given fair warning to the Tibetans, the advance was made. Light snow lay on the ground. The cold was even now intense. News that the Tibetans were still in position had reached us, and the crucial moment which was to decide upon peace or war was now approaching.

We moved along as rapidly as is possible at those high altitudes and encumbered with heavy clothing. A short way out we were met by a messenger from the Tibetan General, urging us to go back to India. I told the messenger to gallop back at once and tell the Lhasa General that we were on our way to Gyantse, and were going as far as Guru, ten miles distant, that day. I said that we did not want to fight, and would not unless we were opposed, but that the road must be left clear for us, and the Tibetans must withdraw from their positions across it. Farther on, as we advanced across an almost level gravelly plain, we came in sight of the Tibetan position in a series of sangars on a ridge. At 1,000 yards’ distance we halted, and awaited the arrival of the Tibetans for our last palaver. They rode up briskly with a little cavalcade, and we all dismounted, set out rugs and coats on the ground, and sat down for the final discussion. I reiterated the same old statement—that we had no wish or intention of fighting if we were not opposed, but that we must advance to Gyantse. If they did not obstruct our progress or did not attack us, we would not attack them. But advance we must, for we had found it impossible to negotiate anywhere else. They replied with the request—or, indeed, almost order—that we must go back to Yatung, and they would negotiate there. They said these were their instructions from Lhasa. They also did not wish to fight, but they had orders to send us back to Yatung.

There was no possible reasoning with such people. They had such overweening confidence in their Lama’s powers. How could anyone dare to resist the orders of the Great Lama? Surely lightning would descend from heaven or the earth open up and destroy anyone who had such temerity! I pointed to our troops, now ready deployed for action. I said that we had tried for fourteen years inside our frontier to settle matters. I urged that for eight months now I had patiently tried to negotiate, but no one with authority came to see me, my letters were returned, and even messages were refused. I had therefore received the commands of the Emperor to advance to Gyantse, in the hope that perhaps there responsible negotiators would meet us. Anyhow, the time for further parleying here was gone. The moment for advance had arrived. I would give them a quarter of an hour after their return to their lines within which to make up their minds. After that interval General Macdonald would advance, and if the Tibetans had not already left their positions blocking our line of advance, he would expel them by force.

All this was interpreted to them by Captain O’Connor with his inimitable suavity and composure. But we might just as well have spoken to a stone wall. Not the very slightest effect was produced. After all, our numbers were not very overwhelming. The Tibetans had charms against our bullets, and the supernatural powers of the Great Lama in the background. Whether they had any lurking suspicions that perhaps, after all, these might not be efficacious I know not. But, anyhow, all had to obey the orders from Lhasa. Those orders were not to let us proceed farther, so stop us they must, and that was all they were concerned with. They had formed no plan of what they should do if we did advance contrary to the Great Lama’s orders. But for that there was no need; the Lama would provide. Such were their ideas. It was, of course, an impossible situation.

The Generals and their following returned to their camp. The quarter of an hour of grace elapsed. And now the great moment had arrived. But I wished still to give them just one last chance, in the hope that at the eleventh hour, and at the fifty-ninth minute of the eleventh hour, they might change their minds. I therefore asked General Macdonald to order his men not to fire upon the Tibetans until the Tibetans first fired on them. In making this request I well knew the responsibility I was incurring. We were but a handful of men—about 100 Englishmen and 1,200 Indians—in the face of superior numbers of Tibetans, in the heart of their country, 15,000 feet above the sea, and separated from India by two high passes; and the advantage our troops possessed from arms of precision and long-range fire I took from them.

It was the last and final effort to carry out our object without the shedding of blood. The troops responded with admirable discipline to the call. They steadily advanced across the plain and up the hillside to the Tibetan lines, expecting at any moment that from behind the sangars a destructive volley might be opened upon them before they could fire a shot. Some of them afterwards, and very naturally, told me that they hoped they would never again be put in so awkward a position. But I trust their discipline will at any rate show to those in England who so decried this day’s action, and spoke about our "massacring unarmed Tibetans"—that men on the remotest confines of the Empire can and do exercise moderation and restraint in the discharge of their duty, and do not always act with that wantonness and reckless cruelty with which they are so often credited at home.

If General Macdonald had had a perfectly free hand, and had been allowed to think only of military considerations, he would have attacked the Tibetans by surprise in their camp, without giving them any warning at all; and even after I had given the Tibetans warning, if he had still been free to act on only military lines, he would have shelled their position with his guns, and with long-range rifle-fire have broken down the defence before advancing to the attack. As it was, in order to give them a chance up to the very last moment, he abdicated both the advantage of surprise and of long-range fire, and his troops advanced up the mountain-side on less than even terms to the fortified position of the Tibetans.

The Tibetans on their side showed great indecision. They also had apparently received orders not to fire first; and the whole affair seemed likely to end in comedy rather than in the tragedy which actually followed. The Tibetans first ran into their sangars and then ran out again. Gradually our troops crept up and round the flanks. They arrived eventually face to face with the Tibetans, as will be seen in the accompanying photograph by Lieutenant Bailey, and things were almost at an impasse till the Tibetans slowly yielded to the admonitions of our troops, and allowed themselves to be shouldered out of their position and be “moved on,” as London policemen would disperse a crowd from Trafalgar Square.

At this point the two Lhasa Majors who had met me previously in the day rode out again, and told me that the Tibetans had been ordered not to fire, and begged me to stop the troops from advancing. I replied that we must continue the advance, and could not allow any troops to remain on the road. There was a post actually on the road, with a wall newly and deliberately built across it, and it was obvious that if we were ever to get to Gyantse the Tibetans behind that wall must be removed. Yet I thought the affair was practically over. The Tibetans were streaming away from their position along the ridge, and had even begun to leave their post on the road. Then a change came. The Lhasa General, or possibly the monks, recalled the men to their post, and an officer reported to General Macdonald that, though surrounded by our troops, they refused to retreat: they were not fighting, but they would not leave the wall they had built across the road.

General Macdonald and I had a consultation together, and agreed that in these circumstances the only thing to do was to disarm them and let them go. We rode together to the spot, and found the Tibetans huddled together like a flock of sheep behind the wall. Our infantry were in position on the hillside only 20 yards above them on the one side; on the other our Maxims and guns were trained upon them at not 200 yards’ distance. Our mounted infantry were in readiness in the plain only a quarter of a mile away. Our sepoys were actually standing up to the wall, with their rifles pointing over at the Tibetans within a few feet of them. And the Lhasa General himself with his staff was on our side of the wall, in among our sepoys.

He had, of course, completely lost his head. Though in command of some thousands of armed men, and though I had given him ample warning of our intention to advance, he was totally unprepared for action when our advance was made. He had brought his men back into an absurd position; his action when he had got them back was simply childish. I sent Captain O’Connor to announce to him that General Macdonald and I had decided that his men must be disarmed, but he remained sullen and did nothing; and when, after a pause, the disarmament was actually commenced, he threw himself upon a sepoy, drew a revolver, and shot the sepoy in the jaw.

Not, as I think, with any deliberate intention, but from sheer inanity, the signal had now been given. Other Tibetan shots immediately followed. Simultaneously volleys from our own troops rang out; the guns and Maxims commenced to fire. Tibetan swordsmen made a rush upon any within reach, and the plucky and enterprising Edmund Candler, the very able correspondent of the Daily Mail, received more than a dozen wounds, while Major Wallace Dunlop, one of the best officers in the force, was severely handled. For just one single instant the Tibetans, by a concerted and concentrated rush, might have broken our thin line, and have carried the Mission and the military staff. But that instant passed in a flash. Before a few seconds were over, rifles and guns were dealing the deadliest destruction on them in their huddled masses. The Lhasa General himself was killed at the start, and in a few minutes the whole affair was over. The plain was strewn with dead Tibetans, and our troops instinctively and without direct orders ceased firing—though, in fact, they had only fired thirteen rounds per man.

It was a terrible and ghastly business; but it was not fair for an English statesman to call it a massacre of “unarmed men,” for photographs testify that the Tibetans were all armed; and, looking back now, I do not see how it could possibly have been avoided. The Tibetans afterwards at Lhasa told me in all seriousness that I might have known their General did not mean to fight, for if he did he would not have been in the front as he was. This, no doubt, was true, and, left to himself, he would, we may be sure, have arranged matters with me in a perfectly amicable manner, for at Guru in January, and when he came to see me at Tuna, he had always shown himself courteous and reasonable; and his men had no antipathy towards us. But he had at his side, ruling and over-awing him, a fanatical Lama from Lhasa. Ignorant and arrogant, this priest herded the superstitious peasantry to destruction. It is only fair to assume that, somewhere in the depths of his nature, he felt that the people’s religion was in danger, and that he was called upon to preserve it. But blind fear of the danger which he believed threatened was so combined with overweening confidence, and there was such a lack of effort to avert the supposed danger by reasonable means, as might so easily have been done, that he simply brought disaster on his country, and, poor man, paid the penalty of his unreasonableness with his life. What to me is so sad is that now, when the Lamas have discovered their errors and are imploring our aid, we can do so little to befriend them.

After the action, General Macdonald ordered the whole of the medical staff to attend the wounded Tibetans. Everything that with our limited means we could do for them was done. Captains Davies, Walton, Baird, Franklin and Kelly, devoted themselves to their care. A rough hospital was made at Tuna. And the Tibetans showed great gratitude for what we did, though they failed to understand why we should try to take their lives one day and try to save them the next. We had been in some anxiety regarding a second body of Tibetans, 2,000 strong, on the opposite side of the lake, but these, on hearing of the disaster near Guru, retreated; and on April 5 we resumed our march in the direction of Gyantse, the thermometer, even thus in April, showing 23 degrees of frost on the morning we started.

I now received a letter, dated March the 27th, from the Resident, who said he was most anxious to hasten to meet me, and had seen the Dalai Lama, but “difficulties arose over transport, which he was unwilling to grant.” After considering all this, he had come to the conclusion that Tibetan politics were those of drift; that Chinese officials were too engrossed in self-seeking, and hence the Tibetans shirked action. But a quarrel on his part with the Dalai Lama would only mar matters, so he would “go on” and perform his share of the duties allotted to him, and he had decided to write "a succinct report to Peking," and then again ask for transport. He hoped I would recognize his perplexities. I had excellent reason for an advance to Gyantse with my escort, he said. But, “notwithstanding the craft and deceit of the Tibetans and their violation of principle,” he had compelled them “somewhat to understand the meaning of principle,” and if I suddenly penetrated into their country he feared they would lapse into their former temper, and thus imperil the conclusion of trade relations. The Dalai Lama had told him that if I would retire to Yatung he would select Tibetan delegates and request him (the Resident) to proceed there and discuss matters. The Resident added that “this frontier matter had been hanging fire for over ten years because it had been perfunctorily drawn up in the beginning, and because subsequently it was shirked by the different delegates, who did not strive honestly to adjust the difficulties.” He was ashamed to mention the question of my retirement to Yatung, but, still, he thought it would be better for me to retire there and “insure the smooth working of a settlement.”

This is all we got after waiting for him for fifteen months. I replied, informing him of the circumstances of the Guru fight, and telling him that I was advancing on Gyantse, which I expected to reach in about a week, and I hoped that I should then have the pleasure of meeting him and a high Tibetan official with the power to make a settlement which would prevent any further useless bloodshed.

On the way to Gyantse, at the Tsamdang Gorge, the Tibetans again opposed our progress by building a wall across the narrow passage. But General Macdonald dislodged them and inflicted heavy loss, and on April 11 we arrived at Gyantse.

We found the valley covered with well-built hamlets and numerous trees and plenty of cultivation. Most of the inhabitants had fled, but the jong, or fort, which stands on an eminence in the middle of the valley, was still partially occupied. The Commandant was informed that General Macdonald proposed to occupy the jong on the following morning, and would expect to find it vacated by 9 a.m. On the morning of the 12th we found that the troops had been withdrawn, and the jong was occupied without opposition.

So ended another phase of the enterprise, and on April 14 the Viceroy telegraphed, offering to myself, General Macdonald, and to all the officers and men of the Mission escort, both civil and military, his warmest congratulations upon the success of the first part of our undertaking, and his grateful recognition of the cheerfulness, self-restraint, and endurance exhibited by all ranks in circumstances unexampled in warfare, and calling for no ordinary patience and fortitude.