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| Will Bonvalot's caravan survive their arduous expedition through the Tian Shan Mountains of Chinese Turkestan? |
| In December, 1888, Gabriel Bonvalot is France's most celebrated explorer whose greatest dream is to be the first living European to reach Lhasa. When the pretender to the throne, Robert, Duke of Chartres, offers to finance Bonvalot's latest expedition on condition he take along his wayward, dissolute son, Prince Henri d'Orléans, Bonvalot's dream seems guaranteed. Before he leaves, Bonvalot is approached by a beautiful young woman, Camille de Villiers, who offers to pay him 2,000 francs to join his caravan so she can search for her missing husband, who was last seen in Tibet. Bonvalot refuses, but Camille hatches another plan, a plan that may derail Bonvalot's entire expedition. During the journey, Bonvalot is plagued by debilitating hallucinations brought on by the dead Russian explorer, Nikolai Prejevalsky, who is drawing Bonvalot deeper under his spell, giving him advice that is calculated to kill him the closer he reaches to Lhasa. Bonvalot's caravan also runs into a whole host of problems, from freezing temperatures to impossible altitudes, blinding sandstorms, snow squalls, suspicious Tibetans, hostile Chinese Ambans, brutal bandits, an incorrigible prince and a pair of rival explorers who will do anything to stop him. Pushed to the brink of his physical and mental limits, Bonvalot must decide if reaching .  |
| Will Camille de Villiers succeed in joining Bonvalot's expedition? |
And so, without further ado, I present you Chapter One of "Race to Tibet":
December 1888
Strolling down the leafy Boulevard
des Italiens, a patch of glittery snow on the cobblestones reminded Gabriel
Bonvalot of the snow-capped mountains of the Hindu Kush .
The muddy sidewalk became the wind-swept valleys of Fergana ,
and the frozen puddles beneath the horses' hooves shimmered like the pristine
blue lakes of Turkestan .
To Bonvalot , France Karakorum range , he was thinking of
ingenious ways of getting there. Even sickness and ill health couldn't stop his
fertile imagination from wandering to exotic, far-flung lands. While he was
laid up with a rheumatic fever that he'd picked up on his latest expedition to
the Pamirs, Bonvalot would spend hours in bed leafing through his trusty Schrader
Atlas, watching as the pages sprang to life. Before his eyes, a map of Central Asia became a living, moving world. Snow-capped
mountains burst from the pages flanked
by murmuring forests of emerald and jade, bowing and swaying under a gust of
Siberian wind, while dashing waterfalls and streams of glacial water
erupted from the heights and snaked down to the ice-covered plateaus of
pristine land where no man had ever stepped foot before. And just as his
eyelids grew too heavy and sleep was about to overtake him, a gentle layer of
snow fell across his bed quilt, carpeting the old volume with a fine layer of Himalayan
snow, prompting Bonvalot to pull up the blanket before closing his eyes and falling
into a deep sleep.
To Bonvalot, geography was not a
mere collection of maps, charts, barometric readings, soil samples, and dull
scientific reports that filled dusty old volumes that languished in cavernous libraries,
it was an adventure waiting to be explored. A world of danger and wonder, a
thrill from which he could not escape. Aside from the occasional Oriental
despot or band or roving nomadic bandits, Bonvalot's greatest worry was finding
the money to finance his expeditions. The art of coaxing money out of fickle
coffers was almost as complicated as extracting gold teeth from reluctant
mouths. And after his last expedition had ended in a dank Chitral dungeon as his
health and the health of his men slowly ebbed away, Bonvalot knew he needed an
extraordinary success to seal his name in the annals of geography.
This time he would go for the grand
prize.
Bonvalot's dream was to be the
first living European to reach Lhasa , the
mysterious capital of Tibet .
But it would not be easy. Times were hard; even the royal family had had their
share of money woes. It was even rumored that the young pretender to the
throne, Prince Henri d'Orléans, a notorious gambler and drinker, had amassed
such a large gambling debt that his father, the Duke of Chartres, had been
forced to wait for hours in the ante-chamber of Baron Maurice de Hirsch before being
granted an audience to beg for the funds to settle the young numskull's debts
of honor. Bonvalot shuddered at the mere thought of having to beg for the
privilege of doing what he loved best.
Down the street, a crowd had
gathered at his favorite newsstand, with all eyes peeled to the latest edition
of Le Figaro. Bonvalot joined them,
and when he spotted a familiar face on the front page, his pulse quickened. Bonvalot
snatched the newspaper off the stand and peered at the headline with a mixture
of shock and incredulity, his hand gripping the paper so tight that his arms
shook: General Prejevalsky Dead.
"I'll be damned!" he
said, his heart racing with excitement. "That Russian blowhard finally met
his end!" Bonvalot threw down a few centimes and headed over to Café
Tortoni where he could study the article in peace.
As Bonvalot entered the café, the
Maitre d'hôtel rushed over to greet him. After shaking Bonvalot's hand, he took
off his coat and gave him a warm pat on the back.
"Ah, Monsieur Bonvalot, what
an honor!" he said. "Allow me to offer you the best seat in the house."
"That won't be
necessary," said Bonvalot, pointing to a corner. "I'd prefer that
quiet table over there."
"As you wish, Monsieur."
Bonvalot took his seat and spread
the newspaper out over the white linen tablecloth just as the wine steward arrived
bearing the pride of the house: Chateau Lafite Rothschild 1883. He held up the
bottle for Bonvalot's approval, uncorked it, breathed the precious fumes, and
then filled a sparkling glass. "Compliments of the house," said the
steward, bowing slightly before returning to the bar. "Much obliged,"
called Bonvalot after him as he lifted the glass to inhale the wine's rich
bouquet. After savoring the calming elixir, Bonvalot turned his attention back
to the newspaper:
Major-General Prejevalsky, whose death was recently reported in the
cablegrams was the most distinguished of all the Russian scientific explorers
and one of the greatest modern authorities on Central Asia .
He was a trusted officer of the Czar and had well-earned the reputation for
being a bold, daring, determined, and enthusiastic pioneer of travel. He broke
fresh ground in Turkestan some 15 years ago, traversing the Pamir, skirting the
Chang Tang, Tibet's great Northern deserts, and penetrating the Lob-Nor.
Although he succeeded in exploring portions of Northern Tibet, he was unable to
make his way south into Lhasa
Shock
waves is an understatement, thought Bonvalot, pouring himself another glass
of wine. Now that Prejevalsky out of the picture, there was nothing to stop him
from reaching his goal of Lhasa .
All he needed was photographic proof and trunks filled with every manner of
Tibetan artifact: gold, gemstones, rare Buddhist manuscripts, intricately
carved statues, and maybe even the Dalai Lama himself. Bonvalot could picture
himself standing in front of the entire Geographic Society as he pulled aside a
curtain to reveal His Holiness himself, the Dalai Lama, and his entire
entourage of saffron-robed attendants. It would be the talk of every
geographical society for years.
Bonvalot sipped his wine and smiled
to himself. At the age of thirty-five, he was the most celebrated explorer in
all of France .
Just over two years ago, he had received the coveted gold medal of the Geographical
Society for his travels to the Pamirs. Tall, handsome, sporting sandy brown
hair, a trimmed beard, inquisitive blue eyes, and a confident smile, Bonvalot
looked at home on the cover of every newspaper and magazine in the country. As
a result of his fame, aided by the prolific number of travel books he had
penned in between expeditions, Bonvalot was treated like a celebrity wherever
he went.
But the life of an explorer is
fraught with hardship and danger. In his career, Bonvalot had cheated death
many times. But until now, death had been an abstraction, like the sun-bleached
skeleton of an ibex nestled along the shores of a pristine Siberian Lake Central Asia
among whom he travelled. But he had won the greater measure of their respect by
displaying a deadly accuracy with a rifle and by never losing the upper hand.
As a rival, Prejevalsky was unbeatable, and now he was dead.
"So it's finished then,"
said Bonvalot, staring at the frozen image of Prejevalsky on the front page of
the newspaper. "You lost your dream of Lhasa . You failed."
"What do you know about my dream of Lhasa ?"
Startled, Bonvalot looked up.
Sitting across from him was a disheveled-looking tramp who had appeared out of
nowhere. His face was bloated, bruised, his skin an unnatural shade of purple
and covered with festering sores. His clothes were in tatters—worse than a
beggar's. His hair was a tangled, filthy mess that more resembled fodder than
human hair. And more troubling than that, the man smelled of the sewers, of
death.
Bonvalot recoiled. "Must you
sit right here? Could you please find another table?"
"When you find out why I've
come, you'll be very glad I did, Monsieur Bonvalot."
Bonvalot held his napkin up to his
nose, covering the stench. "Get out of here you filthy beggar!"
The stranger's face turned
menacing. He reached up and grabbed Bonvalot's arm in a vise-like grip. "I
think you'd better sit back quietly Monsieur Bonvalot if you don't want to
cause a scene."
Bonvalot pulled his arm out of the
stranger's grasp and looked around to make sure nobody was watching them. The
restaurant was filled with diners sitting in pairs or in small groups, waving
their forks in animated conversation as they drank copious amounts of wine and
puffed on cigarettes to their heart's content while an elderly Gypsy wended his
way around the tables serenading the diners with pleasant violin music. To
Bonvalot's relief, no one appeared to have noticed the filthy street beggar who
had wormed his way into one of Paris 's
most famous restaurants and settled down at Bonvalot's table. Even the maitre
d'hôtel, who was not more than twenty feet away, was oblivious to the
frightening altercation in progress. Bonvalot squirmed in his seat and locked
eyes with the tramp.
The stranger continued. "The
reason for my visit is because I have something to offer you," he said in
a voice that was both deep and gravelly, as if grains of sand were blocking his
vocal chords.
"I asked you to leave,"
said Bonvalot under his breath. "Please go."
The beggar narrowed his eyes. "Would you like me to raise
my voice and cause a scene?" Bonvalot shifted uneasily in his seat.
"You said that I failed,"
continued the beggar over the din of the café, "but in many ways I was a
great success. During my third journey, I penetrated further into Tibet than any
other European explorer had in modern times. I came so close to reaching Lhasa , that I was certain
we would make it. At our southernmost point, I calculated our position to be no
more than 160 miles away. Even those celebrated Indian pundits that the British
had sent into Tibet
had only managed to survey the south and west portions of the country; they
were never able to infiltrate the interior before disaster striking. But alas!
our camels proved to be completely useless for climbing at such high altitudes.
They grew sick and feeble, and we were forced to abandon the entire expedition
or risk certain death. But where I failed, you can succeed. That’s why I've
come. I'm here to make a deal with you."
"Who the hell are you?"
said Bonvalot, fighting to keep his voice contained.
"The greatest explorer in the
world," smiled the beggar, showing teeth that were stained and cracked.
"The toast of Russia ,
the favorite of the Tsar. At least, I was
all those things."
"Yes, and I'm Lillie Langtry,
but that doesn't answer my question. Who are
you and how did you get inside this restaurant?" said Bonvalot, his heart racing
as sweat poured down the sides of his face.
The beggar smiled wryly. "I
think you know who I am."
Bonvalot dropped his spoon. He bent
down to retrieve it and noticed that the beggar was wearing what appeared to be
yak boots that were caked with a yellowish mud. Bonvalot slid his pocket knife
out of its sheath, cut off a sample of the fur, and wrapped it in his
handkerchief, and discreetly stuffed it in his pocket.
The beggar continued, "I
entered a region that was less known than the darkest Africa ,"
continued the tramp. "Using only my iron will and strength of mind, I
broke the backs of those damned Asiatics. But my men and I suffered terrible
privations for our heroism. Many times we went hungry when no game was
available. Dozens of horses and camels collapsed out of sheer exhaustion. Some
of them simply froze to death. The Hami desert that separates the Tian Shan
from the Nan Shan was so hot, that even at
night you couldn't sleep on the ground. There were no animals, no plants, no
civilized life, just salt clouds that formed into mirages and wind that could
knock you off your feet and tear out your eyes. There was no fodder for the
animals, no water to drink. And the inhabitants! They mirrored the cursed
terrain with their treachery. They refused to sell us food, refused to provide
us with guides. They called us foreign devils behind our backs and sometimes
right to our faces. They used every means of deceitfulness to rob us blind. The
only thing the Chinamen and the Mongol understand is the nagayka whip. Central Asia is a
lawless, godless land, and only European rifles and cannons can do any good
here. Missionary preaching is like howling in the wilderness. The Asiatics are
beyond saving."
"Prejevalsky…?" whispered
Bonvalot under his breath.
"The name is Nikolay
Mikhaylovich Prejevalsky," said the beggar, bowing his head slightly and
twisting his lips in a contorted smile. "As you may have heard, I was
never noted for my manners; I never felt comfortable in polite society. I was
only happy out there, in the wilderness, far from wretched civilization. Far
from the stench of humanity."
Bonvalot felt his neck grow hot
with anger. "I suppose you think this is funny, whoever you are. Some kind
of April Fool's joke! Listen to me, I don't know who the hell you are, but I
think you're a lunatic. Stark raving mad. And I'm not the least bit impressed
with your little charade. Get the hell out of here before I call the gendarmes.
Scat!"
All at once, the beggar erupted
into a violent coughing fit that was so loud, it drowned out the din of the
café, and muffled the clanking of pots from the kitchen.
Bonvalot looked around, terrified
that the miscreant would choke to death at his table and cause a hair-raising
scene that would land him on the front page of Charivari, or worse. The fact that the waiter failed to appear with
a glass of water only made things worse. It seemed, in fact, as though no one else was aware of the
beggar's loud coughs, as if they couldn't see him or hear him. To mollify the
matter, Bonvalot resorted to thumping the hacking beggar's stone cold back.
"Is that all you can do after
I came all the way here to help you?" cried the beggar, pushing Bonvalot's
hand away as he spit a large blood clot into his napkin. "You sorry French
bastard! You didn't even offer me a drink! What kind of manners do you have? I
should shoot you with my revolver to teach you a lesson. Where is the damn
thing?"
Bonvalot sprung out of his seat,
heart pounding like a drum, as the vagabond rummaged for his holster through
frayed, tattered clothing with a fury that bordered on savage. Unarmed,
Bonvalot searched for any sign of help, but there was not a gendarme in sight.
No one had heard the beggar's threats. And worse than that, everyone else was
laughing and joking to their heart's content, blissfully unaware of Bonvalot's
dire predicament.
The beggar gave up his search and returned
to his coughing spasms. Bonvalot let out a deep sigh, but felt his face redden at
the humiliation of having a lowly street beggar commandeer his private table
and launch into a lecture about the rigors of Central Asian exploration. Bonvalot
motioned to the maitre d'hôtel, who came rushing over, corkscrew in hand.
"Oui, Monsieur Bonvalot?"
"Will you please escort this
vagrant out of the café? He came in and sat down at my table and threatened to
shoot me. He's stark raving mad and has no business here!"
"Certainly," said the maitre
d'hôtel, who looked from Bonvalot to the table, then back again at Bonvalot.
"Excuse me, Monsieur Bonvalot," he said, appearing baffled. "But
which vagrant are you referring to?"
Stunned, Bonvalot turned to look at
the table. Inexplicably, the stranger had vanished.
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