The Pulse of Danger

Chapter Three

Marquis came awake with a start, the shot ringing in his ears like an echo from a dream. Then he heard the shout, and he knew he hadn’t been dreaming. Eve sat up in her bed, her voice cracking with sleep and shock. ‘What’s that?’

Marquis tumbled out of bed, pulled on trousers and sweater over his pyjamas, slid his feet into the old desert boots he wore around camp; then just before he stepped out of the tent he dragged on his anorak and zipped it up to the neck. He was glad that he did: as soon as he came out into the dark morning the cold attacked him. The wind had swung right round to the north, was blowing out of Tibet with all the chill of approaching winter. Marquis shivered, chilled by omen as much as by the wind.

His eyes watered as the wind cut at them, but he saw the dim figure running away from the kitchen tent. It ran towards the stores’ tent; Marquis shut his eyes to blink away the tears; when he opened them, the figure had gone. He wiped his eyes and looked back at the kitchen tent.

Singh had come out of the kitchen tent, a pistol in his hand.

As Marquis crossed to him, Tom Breck and Wilkins came out of their tents. ‘What’s going on? What the hell—?’

Singh said, ‘Someone tried to kill my prisoner.’

Marquis flung back the flap of the kitchen tent. Two rough beds had been made for Singh and Li Bu-fang on the floor of the kitchen; Li lay flat on his back on one of them, his hands still bound. Pots and pans lay about him like discarded helmets; whoever had tried to kill him had been clumsy. A sack of flour had burst: Li was white as far up as his waist, like a man half-way to being embalmed.

‘You all right?’ Marquis said, and the Chinese nodded. He was no inscrutable Oriental now: he was as frightened as the most emotional Occidental. Marquis turned back to Singh. ‘Who was it?’

‘I didn’t see. I heard Li cry out, I saw this shape, I fired at him, but he got away—’

The whole camp was astir now. Eve and Nancy stood in the doorways of their respective tents, each wrapped in an anorak and a blanket. The porters had come out of their tents, but had not moved up towards Marquis and the others; they stood in a broken line, watching carefully like spectators at a political rally they resented. Marquis could not see their faces, they were just black shapes against the lamps in their tents; but he recognised the stiffness of their attitude, he had seen it in Africa and other parts of Asia when trouble occurred. He, Eve, the Brecks, Wilkins were now one with Singh and Li Bu-fang: they were all foreigners.

‘We’d better ask some questions, then,’ said Wilkins. ‘It must have been one of the porters.’

‘Get them up here at once,’ Singh said.

Marquis turned his head slowly. ‘Colonel, this isn’t Poona, or wherever your barracks are. This is my camp – mine, not yours. Don’t start chucking orders around here, or you’re likely to be cut down to lance-corporal. Don’t forget, no one invited you in here.’

The two men stared at each other in the dim glow from the lamp in the kitchen tent. Singh still held his pistol; the barrel of it came up. Marquis tensed, waiting for the bullet; he found it incredible that the Indian should shoot him, but he knew it was going to happen. Singh’s face was distorted with an anger that made him ugly. I was right, Marquis thought, he does belong to another century. And waited for the bullet.

Then down by their tents the porters turned all at once, as if turning away to avoid seeing the murder. Or perhaps they were going to break and run. That thought seemed to strike Singh; the pistol swung away from Marquis in the direction of the porters. And without quite knowing why, Marquis stepped in front of the pistol again, keeping it aimed at himself, but at his back this time as he turned towards the porters. He shouted, ‘Nimchu!’, but the wind snatched away his voice and the shout sounded more like a bleat. Then Nimchu came towards him, another porter with him. It was Chungma, breathing heavily, trembling with exhaustion.

‘What the hell brought you back, Chungma?’

‘Chinese, sahib.’ The boy had only a few words of English; he hissed them into the wind. ‘Down valley.’

‘There are forty or fifty of them, sahib.’ Nimchu had been speaking to Chungma as he had brought the young porter up to Marquis. ‘Camped where this river joins the river from the east. Chungma was camped there himself when they arrived. He was very lucky to escape.’

‘Did they see you, Chungma?’

‘Not know, sahib.’ His teeth glimmered in the lightening darkness; he was still young and innocent enough to joke about disaster. ‘Ran too fast.’

Marquis also grinned, although he was in no mood for joking. He glanced over his shoulder at Singh; the latter had put away his pistol. Then he looked back at Chungma. ‘Which way were they heading?’

Nimchu spoke to Chungma, then turned back to Marquis. The older Bhutanese knew this was no time for joking; his voice had a nervous edge to it. ‘Chungma thinks they are coming this way, sahib. They were coming up the valley, he is sure of that.’

Marquis remarked the nervousness in Nimchu’s voice and at once his own apprehension increased. He cursed, and stood thinking while the wind whetted its blade against his cheek. He could hear it coming down the narrow valley, its sound drowning the hiss and rumble of the river; the trees creaked and keened under its scything, leaves whipping through the darkness like bats. Up in the high peaks he knew that a blizzard must be blowing, the snow whirling through the passes in thick blinding clouds. He wondered why the Chinese should be down the valley, below the camp; then guessed they might be from another post farther west, who had got the word that one of their generals had been captured and had come down one of the side valleys. It didn’t matter where they had come from. What mattered was where they were, down there at the bottom of the valley, oiling the bolts on their rifles, chanting some Red propaganda to keep themselves warm, just waiting for daylight to come marching up the valley.

‘Could it have been one of the Chinese who tried to kill the general?’ Tom Breck said.

‘Why would they want to do that?’ Marquis turned away for a moment, told Nimchu to have Tsering come up to the kitchen tent and start preparing breakfast; then he turned back to Breck and the other men. ‘They wouldn’t travel at night in one of these valleys. Too easy to get lost—’

‘Then it must have been one of the porters,’ said Wilkins.

‘Could be.’ Marquis glanced across at Nancy Breck, still standing in the doorway of her tent. The morning had lightened enough now for him to see more clearly; beneath the blanket she had wrapped round her he could see she was wearing trousers and boots. She was fully dressed and her boots were laced up. He looked at Tom Breck, but the latter looked as innocent as ever. Then he turned to Singh. ‘But I’m not going to start questioning the porters, Colonel. I’ve got other things on my mind right now.’

‘Such as?’

I’m going to give myself a hernia, trying to control my temper with this bastard. ‘Such as trying to work out what we can do to get out of this spot we’re in. You look after your prisoner, Colonel. We’ll look after ourselves. If we don’t, we might all be dead by to-night.’ He heard Tom Breck gasp; Wilkins made a noise that sounded like a snort. ‘Better start packing, Tom. You too, Nick.’ He looked at Singh again, felt suddenly too tired to be angry at the man; the danger of a hernia passed. ‘All these bloody mountains to get lost in, and you had to choose this valley!’

‘It’ll work out all right, Jack.’ Tom Breck rubbed his beard. ‘Nick and I have got confidence in you, haven’t we, Nick? Whatever you say, we’re right with you, aren’t we, Nick?’

That’s what’s going to give me the hernia: Tom is going to overload me with trust. He looked at Breck, who nodded his head in encouragement: one almost expected him to shout rah, rah, rah. Then Marquis looked at Wilkins, who grimaced sourly. And at that moment he felt more affection for Wilkins than he did for Breck.

‘Whatever you say, Jack,’ said Tom Breck. ‘Anything you decide, we’re with you all the way.’

‘Thanks, Tom,’ said Marquis, and wondered how many men had killed their friends for burdening them with too much devotion.

Then he walked on towards his own tent, looking up towards the east. It would be full light in another hour, a cold dawn that would show new snow on the peaks and perhaps even on the lower slopes. Something cold brushed against his cheek, a leaf, a snowflake: whatever it was, it was cold, chill as the finger of fate. He felt suddenly depressed; the fire in him was beginning to turn to ashes; if they cut him open now they would find he had a clinker for a heart. Eve had been right: they should have left for home a week ago.

She was waiting for him in the tent, still wrapped in her anorak and blanket. ‘Was that Chungma I saw?’

‘Get dressed, love. Properly dressed, put on your warmest things. Looks like we’re in for a long hike over the hills.’ He took off his outer clothing, slid out of his pyjamas, then dressed again, substituting a wool shirt for his pyjama-top and walking boots for the old desert boots. ‘There are fifty or so Chows camped down the valley. Chungma ran into them, thinks they are coming this way.’

She shivered, as much with shock as with cold. Half-dressed, she looked up at him. ‘Are we in any danger?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, but he knew he was not being honest with her. ‘I’m not going to take any risks, though.’

She recognised his restraint towards her, that he was trying not to frighten her. She was not given easily to panic, but because it had never really been severely tested she was not sure of the extent of her own courage. There had been moments of danger on expeditions in the past, but she had survived them; mainly, she thought, because they had only been moments and she had reacted by instinct. Real courage, she knew, was more than a matter of reflexes.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘We’re getting out of here as fast as we can.’

Five minutes later he was telling the rest of the camp the same thing. ‘I could tell Colonel Singh to get out of here with his prisoner, but I don’t for a moment think that would give us any guarantee of being left alone if the Chinese come up this way. The mere fact that they’ve come this far down into Bhutan shows they’re either desperate or they don’t care. Either way I wouldn’t like to have five bob on our chances.’

‘What’s your plan, then?’ Wilkins asked.

‘We’ll have breakfast, then as soon as it’s daylight we’ll be on our way.’

‘Where?’ Eve said.

To New Guinea, to Kensington, anywhere at all; even the rose garden in Buckinghamshire looked an attractive destination now. He sipped from the hot mug of tea he held. He stared down into the fire round which they all stood; then looked up at the faces all turned towards him. This was different from anything that had ever confronted him before: the problems of a cricket or a rugger captain suddenly became a joke. People stood waiting on him to be responsible for them: he looked at Tom Breck, who gave him the old nod of encouragement.

‘We’ll go over the mountains,’ he said at last, and tried to sound decisive. ‘We’ll go with Colonel Singh and his prisoner.’

There was silence for a moment, broken only by the moan of the wind. Then Wilkins said, ‘What if some of us think that isn’t a good idea? It could be damned rough, trying to get over those peaks in this weather. What about Eve and Nancy?’

Marquis looked at Nancy, but she just stared at him as if she didn’t see him. Then he looked at Eve. He felt a weakness run through him when at last she said, ‘I’ll depend on Jack.’

Then Nancy fumbled in the pocket of her anorak, put on her glasses as if she were going to read some proposition before she agreed to it. Then: ‘I’ll go with Jack.’

‘So will I,’ said Tom Breck, tugging on his beard as if to give emphasis to what he said.

Wilkins hesitated. The seven months here in the mountains had almost exhausted him mentally and physically; he had not even been looking forward to the comparatively easy walk out down the long valley to Thimbu. At last he shrugged. ‘Majority rules, I guess.’

Singh had said nothing during this short debate. Li Bu-fang stood beside him, silent, contemptuous in his lack of interest. Singh glanced at him, as if wanting to goad him into some remark; then he looked back at the others, knowing now that he was as involved with them as much as with his prisoner. For all his outward self-assurance he had not felt comfortable since entering the camp; not because he felt unwelcome, although that had disturbed him, too, but because he knew that his and Li’s presence had at once placed a premium on the safety of Marquis and the others. But apology, even diffidence, came hard to him; he still lived in the memory of a day when such an attitude, on the part of a prince, had been a sign of weakness. In certain ways he was still tongue-tied by inheritance; Oxford had educated him in Western ways, but it had not entirely eradicated the East from him. He looked at Marquis as the latter spoke to him.

‘You and I had better have a look at my map, Colonel.’

Singh hesitated, then with difficulty that none of the others recognised he said, ‘I am sorry this has happened. The Chinese would not be coming up this valley if it were not for me and my prisoner. I shall make it up to you. I shall guarantee to get you and your party safely into India.’

‘Thank you,’ said Marquis, and only Eve noticed the harsh dry note in his voice.

While the others set about packing their gear, Singh and Marquis consulted the latter’s map. ‘It’s an old one, Colonel, and it’s not too accurate. But it’ll give us some idea where to head. Nimchu tells me there was an old trade route farther east from here, one that the Tibetans used to take when they brought their wool out. We’ll try and find that.’

Singh was looking at the map. ‘The ridges run north and south. If we head south down one of the valleys, that might bring us into more settled country and we could be picked up by the Bhutanese. I must avoid that if I can.’ He looked at Marquis. ‘But you and your friends could split up and leave us when we come to a valley that runs in the right direction.’

‘We’ll do that if we get the chance. Otherwise—’ Marquis examined the map carefully. ‘We’ve got about five days’ heavy slogging ahead of us. That trade route isn’t marked on here, but I guess it finished up down in Assam. We’ll head that way—’ He ran a finger across the map. ‘Five days, and as you said, Colonel – if we haven’t made it by then, we’ll never make it.’

Singh looked across to where Li Bu-fang sat. ‘I know that every inch of the way, I’m going to want to kill that chap. But I have to get him out into India.’ He looked back at Marquis. ‘Do you understand what face means in Asia?’

‘I’ve come up against it once or twice.’

‘If I can get him out to my country, it won’t only be the positive propaganda we can make of it. There will be the other effect – the loss of face for China.’

‘What about his own loss of face? Won’t he try to do something about that?’

‘You mean perhaps commit suicide? I think not. Not at first. He’ll stay alive so long as I still have these papers.’ He tapped his pocket.

‘Then you’re going to be stuck with him all the way.’

Singh looked back at the map, then up at the distant peaks. ‘All the way.’

It took them half an hour to break camp. There was so much to be left behind, so little to pack. Enough food for five days, tents, rope and climbing gear, blankets and sleeping-bags and cooking utensils: survival, not comfort, became the yardstick of choice. Li Bu-fang, the veteran of several such hurried flights but now the only one unconcerned with this one, sat in a canvas chair, his hands and feet bound, and watched with silent amusement.

‘What are you grinning at?’ Marquis, coming up from the garden with a polythene bag in his hand, stopped beside the Chinese.

Li Bu-fang looked up. Sitting in his chair, his bound hands in his lap, the only man not on his feet working, he could have been a general idly watching his staff dismantle their field headquarters after manæuvres.

‘All this hustle and bustle. You will all be dead in twenty-four hours. Why bother?’

‘Maybe it’s because I’ve never taken anything for granted, Chow.’

‘Chow. Is that a term of insult, like Chink? You whites never grow up, do you? Always sounding like schoolboys abusing the lesser races. Why do you bother to insult me like that? It’s a sign of a small mind.’

Marquis stared down at him, then he nodded. ‘I’d never thought of it. You’re right. You’re pretty smart, aren’t you?’

‘For a Chow?’

‘You’re insulting yourself now.’

‘You’re smart, too.’

‘Where did you learn to speak English?’

‘Various places. Certain of our schools and universities teach it.’

‘Part of your preparation for taking over the world, eh?’

Li Bu-fang grinned. ‘If you like.’

‘They teach you pretty well.’

‘Oh, I have had practice. I started learning very early. I was in Chungking during the war. The one you imperialists call World War Two. Such a conceit. Less than half the world fought in it, but you still called it a world war.’

‘I wouldn’t let it worry you. A war by any name is still a war. You’re talking to a pacifist, sport. What were you doing in Chungking?’

‘Working as house-boy for an American major.’

‘That made you a Communist?’

‘No. He hated Chiang Kai-shek, too. In those days it was safe for an American to feel that way. We Communists were not the main enemy then.’

‘You were a Communist then? You must have started young.’

‘I was born one. I was twelve years old when I accompanied my father on the Long March. You’ve heard of the Long March?’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ Marquis said, and wondered if he himself could have survived such a journey when he had been twelve years old. At twelve, a day on the beach at Coogee had tired him out. But then, as a child, survival had not been a driving force: the ice-cream cone, the meat-pie and the saveloy had not been meant to fight off starvation. ‘It was back in 1934 and 35, wasn’t it?’

‘You seem to know something of China.’