Owing to the fell presence of the grim visitor, cholera, the durbar

broke up sooner than was intended, and my regiment received orders

to proceed by train to Delhi, _en route_ to Rawul Pindee. My

wife not being very well, I decided to go on at night by passenger

train. The left wing of the regiment was to follow by special train,

but the station-master was not certain when he could despatch them,

leaving a wide margin, between 6 p.m. or 1 a.m. 3 a.m. saw us,

tired and miserable, at our journey’s end, standing on the railway

platform, without a coolie to help us with our luggage, or any more

light than the glimmer our own lantern afforded. Such was the Delhi

railway-station in 1866.

A gharry was at last procured, and wearied and worn we started for the

hotel (which had been our mess-house when the Rangers were stationed

here in 1859). The railway did not cross the river Jumna, which was

spanned by a bridge of boats. This entailed further delay, as the

pair of ponies had to be taken out and changed for bullocks before we

ventured on the swaying structure. But the longest and most tedious

journey ends at last, and so did ours as we stopped at Hamilton’s

hotel. It was bitterly cold, and as in India the traveller carries

his own bedding, and our luggage was still at the station, we had not

a very comfortable night’s rest. As the morning advanced everything

looked brighter. The weather was perfect, reminding one of a breezy

autumn day at home. We drove out to the camp, which we found pitched in

the old cantonments outside Delhi, where our army was encamped so long

during the memorable siege in 1857.

As we left Delhi we passed through the Cashmere Gate, a monument now

of gallant daring. My tents were pitched under a tope of trees, and

the breeze sighing among the branches sounded like the wind up aloft

at sea. We met a great many regiments at Delhi, as it was the relief

season, and they were all on their way to new quarters. It made the

difficulty greater than usual of getting carriage conveyance.

Being delayed several days, we spent our time visiting the sights in

and near Delhi, specially the palace in whose vast hall, with its many

pillars of marble, once stood the peacock throne, which was carried

away by Nadir Shah in 1739. Along the cornice on each side of the

chamber there is written in Arabic the inscription, ‘If there be a

paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this!’ The dilapidated

state the whole of the palace was in when I first saw it in 1859 might

have saddened anyone, but on this last visit what a change! Everything

had been cared for, and the poetical beauty of the place was brought

out with great success. In Delhi stands the Jumna-Musjid, _i.e._,

the Friday mosque, Friday being the Mohammedan Sabbath. At the siege

in 1857 our soldiers forced their way into this temple. A very great

friend of mine, Coghill, who was then adjutant of the 2nd Fusiliers,

was cheering the men on in his gallant, hearty way, and he came to what

was called the holy of holies, a structure made in imitation of the

prophet’s tomb at Mecca. Coghill seized hold of the koran, a large

and heavy book kept in this place, and carried it off with several

other wonders, such as a hair of the prophet’s moustache, and similar

trustworthy valuables. As the koran was rather heavy, he handed it over

to some one to take to one of the civilian officers.

After Delhi had fallen, I was anxious to get a remembrance of the great

siege, and I became possessor of the koran. For a long time it reposed

in one of my portmanteaus, but a native came to see me one day and said

that it was known by certain Mohammedans that a copy of the koran was

in my possession, and that it was very valuable, being one of the three

original copies, one of which was at Mecca, another at Delhi, and the

last I forget where. So I packed it up very carefully and sent it home

to Scotland. Thinking that the Bodleian library would value such an

acquisition, I offered it through a friend, but was informed that the

koran was incomplete; so it still belongs to me.

Among many interesting accounts of Delhi, there is none more curious

than that contained in the autobiography of Sultan Baber, who lived

A.D. 1526. He was the ancestor of the old king of Delhi, who

lost his throne by the mutiny of 1857. Baber was born to the throne

of Ferghana, or Transosian, now the Russian province of Khokan.

Sherbany Khan, the leader of the Usbegs, took all from him, but Baber

(which means tiger) conquered all his overwhelming difficulties by

his energy and courage. He gained the throne of Kabul, and was ruler

of that country in A.D. 1525. As he had many adherents, he

determined to invade India. Sultan Baber wrote his own autobiography in

a dialect of the Turkish language; it was translated into Persian, and

also into English fifty years ago by Dr. Leyden. The civilization of

India is Turkish to this day. Until the year 1857 Baber’s descendants

continued to reign in Delhi. ‘There are four roads,’ writes Baber,

‘that lead from Kabul to India; in all these there are passes more or

less difficult, Lamghanat and Kheiber, Bangash, Naghz, and Fernul.’ The

Lamghanat road is the present route from Kabul to Peshawur, and it was

by it that Baber and his horsemen marched, and his baggage and cannon

were conveyed; it was the scene of the Kabul massacre in 1842, when a

British army was cut to pieces; it witnessed the triumphal march of a

British army in 1879.

‘A.D. 1526, April 12th--The Turks, under Baber, arrived within two

marches of Panipat--which lies fifty miles from Delhi--and on the 21st

of April the battle was fought that gave India foreign masters for many

centuries, and a form of government that it still retains.’

‘The same night, April 21st, A.D. 1526, Prince Humayon and

Kurajeh Khan were despatched to take Agra, seventy miles away. Baber

marched to Delhi. Delhi for three thousand years had been a great city.

It was contemporaneous with Nineveh and Babylon. The city of Delhi of

that day was called Firozabad. On a rocky hill, which extends on one

side of the city, was a citadel, built by King Feroze a hundred years

before the Turkish invasion. On another side of the city was King

Feroze’s other palace, in which stood a trophy of war, a large monolith

of stone, surmounted by the Moslem emblem of the crescent shining in

brass. On it were inscriptions in the Pali tongue, which recalled a

long-forgotten king, Asoka, the King Alfred of Hindoo history.’

All this information I copied at the time of reading it--the most

interesting account of Sultan Baber’s journal. When I was quartered

in Delhi, in 1859, I have often ridden over to these ancient ruins,

and examined the inscriptions on the stone pillar, which had then

lost the Moslem emblem mentioned above. The courtyard was then used

for the commissariat bullocks, and the dust, flying about everywhere,

was almost blinding. Delhi, in ancient times, was the largest city

in Hindostan, covering a space of twenty square miles. It has now

dwindled down to a circumference of seven miles; but the ruins of

its former grandeur still exist, and a vast tract is covered with

remains of palaces and mausoleums. We drove out to the Kootub-minar,

that wonderful monument of a by-gone age. We passed on our way the

once famous observatory, now much dilapidated, and no longer used

for astronomical observation. In the eleven miles’ drive we saw a

succession of tombs, generally solid, square edifices, with domed tops.

We stopped at the mausoleum of Sufter Jung, which stands in a garden,

and is a graceful reminiscence of a prince of Oude. After a dusty drive

across a sandy plain, we thought the patch of green on which the

Kootub stands, with its shady trees, a most refreshing sight.

Passing through Aladdin’s Gate, a very fine arch, we saw before us the

splendid column of the ‘Minar.’ It rises in a succession of marvellous

sculptured fluted columns, two hundred and forty feet high, very wide

at the base, and diminishing in circumference at each series of joints

till the summit is reached. Like the campaniles attached to churches

abroad, whence the bells ring out their summons to prayer, so from

the height of the Kootub the faithful were called to their devotions

in the adjacent mosque. Sultan Baber, in his journal, mentions the

Kootub as ‘that strange, tall, unrivalled pillar, which was raised to

call the faithful to prayer in the splendid mosque open to the blue

heavens below.’ We were informed that the Kootub had been erected by a

prince, to enable his daughter to ascend every day and look upon the

holy river Jumna, a feat which, if performed by her, must have kept her

in first-rate condition, for the Kootub is, I think, higher than the

Monument of London, and the winding stair is very steep.

At length we were enabled to leave Delhi. There is no more agreeable

duty than a long march in India during the cold weather. After

all the necessary preparations have been made; after the means of

transport have been collected, and various other arrangements, trying

to the temper and patience of commanding-officer, adjutant, and

quarter-master, have been got over, the regimental order-book contains

the following announcement, that ‘The regiment will parade at 3 a.m.,’

the next day. On the same evening that these orders are read to the

companies, a detachment has marched away, with the camp color-men and

the married people; the former to lay out the lines of the camp, the

latter to be out of the way of the regiment.

I always sent on a tent to be pitched by my own native servants,

and, when we arrived at the camping ground in the morning, we found

everything ready. What luxurious tents these were! Each one consisted

of a drawing-room, bed-room, and dressing-room, with a broad verandah,

formed by an outer covering. Indian servants have a wonderful knack

of arranging a room. As the tent we slept in was denuded of all

furniture, excepting beds and a chair or two, when we arrived in the

morning, we entered apparently the same sitting-room we had occupied

the previous day. Not a book was in a different place--everything was

the same. On some marches we rode in advance of the regiment, on others

we drove in my wife’s carriage; but, whichever way we travelled, we

enjoyed ourselves much. The Grand Trunk road of India, along which we

were journeying, was the finest made road in the world, smooth, and

level as a billiard-table. Ten to twelve miles was the average length

of a day’s march.

The men throve wonderfully. It was splendid to see them quickening

their swinging steps as they came in sight of the new camping ground,

marching in, every man in his ranks, to the lively sound of the band,

playing ‘Patrick’s Day in the Morning.’ As each company came to its

camping ground, it was halted, and piled arms by command of its

captain, and then the men proceeded to pitch the tents. It was a fine

sight to behold. When the bugle sounded a long, melancholy note, as if

by magic a white canvas town rose up on the dusty plain.

Then a sudden lull would fall on the busy scene. The men were preparing

for breakfast. The camels, eased of their loads, were driven off to

find their food in the neighbourhood; the patient bullocks lay by their

carts, and munched chopped straw, or ruminated on the hardships of

their life, while the married women of the regiment, having arrived

the night before, were the only visible people, and they were occupied

scolding their servants; for in India all Europeans are waited on,

and the wives of privates have their cooks and their washer-men. The

married soldiers’ families on a long march travelled in large bamboo

cages, covered with carpeting to keep out the sun as much as possible,

and these cages were put on the common country carts, drawn by

bullocks. We had a long line of fifty or sixty carts of married people,

and, as they started in advance at about two in the afternoon on the

same day as the regiment marched in, a great hush always seemed to fall

on the camp as they creaked and groaned off on their way. The fresh

early morning is very exhilarating, and the days are never too hot in

the cold weather.

One morning was very cold, so my wife and I rode quickly on in front of

the battalion. We passed the camels, which were moving steadily along

on each side of the well-made Indian highway. We arrived too soon at

the camping ground, and our tents were not quite ready, as the servants

had not expected us so early; so we got chairs, and sat enjoying

the fresh morning air. At length our camels, told off to carry the

khansama’s property, arrived. On one of these ‘ships of the desert’ was

fastened a hencoop containing some turkeys and fowls. My wife insisted

that the poultry should be released at once, which was done, and a huge

white turkey rushed madly about, and finally jumped on to my wife’s

lap. She received the great bird with kindness, but in a short time

exclaimed, in accents of the greatest consternation:--‘Oh, Edward, the

turkey has laid an egg in my lap!’ And so it had. How we laughed! That

turkey was ever after a great pet, was named Lady Alicia, and travelled

with us for many a day, but at length was devoured by a jackal in the

hills of Murree.

At Kurnal we found our tents pitched in a pretty spot, under large

trees, just outside the walls of the town. But we were carried off by

an old friend, Colonel Trench, superintendent of the government stud

at Kurnal, to his bungalow. Tent life is very pleasant, but after a

long time of it one appreciates the solid comforts of four walls and a

roof. The stud was a very interesting sight, everything being in the

most perfect order. There were about eight hundred horses altogether,

three hundred of them colts. We saw them turned out for exercise in a

large field. How they tore about, with manes and tails streaming! Then

they formed up, with distended nostrils, to have a look at us, and were

off again. Kurnal used to be one of the largest and most favourite

stations in India; but it became, from some unknown reason, dreadfully

unhealthy. Hundreds of Europeans died there, and it was abandoned as a

military station.

We spent Christmas here. Christmas is a season of rejoicing in India

to the natives as well as to us. Yellow flowers are profusely used

as decorations, and it is the custom for all the principal employés

to present ‘dollies’ to their masters, or the heads of departments.

As colonel commanding a regiment, I received ‘dollies’ from the

kotwal of the regimental bazaar, from the commissariat baker, and

many others, and now on the march the chief of the camel-men brought

a hill ‘dollie.’ They are almost always of the same shape, that of a

large, round, flat basket, with the contents tastefully arranged so

that everything is seen at once. Oranges, pomegranates, raisins, sugar,

spices, and Cabul grapes, packed up in little boxes, each grape in

cotton wool, are the usual gifts. To touch the basket with the right

hand, in sign of acceptance, is sufficient, and then the servants get

the contents, or, if there is any special delicacy, you appropriate it.

Umballa, a very large station, was our next important halt. Its close

vicinity to the hills and Simla makes it very popular. The band of the

94th Regiment came out to meet the 88th. None of us thought then that

in a few years that gallant corps would be called the 2nd Battalion

Connaught Rangers. We changed our carts and camels at Umballa, and were

delayed fifteen days before we got others. We met with the greatest

hospitality and kindness, and our time passed pleasantly. One night we

were fairly washed out of our tents by a most tremendous storm which

suddenly burst over us. The thunder roared, the lightning flashed

incessantly, and the heavens descended in a flood. Our tents were ankle

deep in water. Daylight showed that the camp was standing in a lake.

The men, who on a march have no beds, were badly off; but the greatest

sufferers were the married women and children. Their cages had been

necessarily removed from the carts that had conveyed them from Delhi,

and they were on the ground till we got our new supply of carriages.

Poor women, every stitch they possessed was floating in water. The sun,

fortunately, came out, and tents and clothes dried; but we moved to

another ground.

About three hundred miles from Delhi we halted at Umritsur, celebrated

for its golden temple; the walls are of pure white marble, and its roof

of copper gilt. It stands in a miniature lake, a hundred and fifty

paces square, the water of which, when we were there, was green and

stagnant, and in it the Sikhs immerse themselves, that they may be

purified from their sins. I think that the Temple of Umritsur looks

more imposing in a photograph than in reality. We passed along the

marble causeway, guarded on each side with golden balustrades and

lamps, and paused at the solid silver door to have straw shoes put over

our boots. The inside is richly gilded and decorated, and the marble

floor is inlaid with mosaic; but there is a tawdriness in the silken

canopy, under which reposes the sacred ‘Grunth,’ the Sikh’s Bible, and

in the yellow flowers hung everywhere.

Umritsur has always been noted for its manufacture of shawls and silks,

and owing to its situation between Cabul, Delhi, and Cashmere, has

driven a great trade.

There was intense excitement one night in consequence of a robber

having been caught close to our tent, stark naked, and greased from

head to foot. The servants surrounded him, but could not hold him till

the bheestee (water-carrier) poured a mussock of water over him and

he was rubbed down. There is a regular caste of thieves. The mess one

night lost all their copper pots and pans.

On the 23rd of February, 1867, we marched into Rawul Pindee, after a

journey which was most successfully accomplished. We were quite sorry

the long march was over. The men were in most splendid condition. The

usual amount of difficulty in collecting transport going up country

had been encountered, but everything had gone right at last. We all

had had pleasant meetings with old friends at the various stations we

had passed. At several of them my wife and I had stopped for a night

or two at a friend’s bungalow, driving on afterwards, and overtaking

the regiment, which had always been moving steadily on. So it was with

real regret we watched the departure from camp on the last day’s march.

The four bullock-carts started with the servants, the goats dragging

behind. The wives of the chief men were in marching trim, with tight

blue trousers down to their heavily-bangled ankles, and over their

heads was a great white square of linen, reaching to their waists;

behind them again was the swaying line of camels.

The Rangers had owned a pack of fox-hounds, which had given many a good

day’s run in the plains of the North West, and it was to our great

dismay we were told, on being ordered to Rawul Pindee, that our pack

would be of no use up there. So they were disposed of before we left

Cawnpore, and when we saw the broken country we had got into, we felt

we had done wisely to sell them. The hot weather was very near when we

reached Pindee. We had just time to get comfortably housed and settled

when it was upon us.

CHAPTER VII.

THE AMEER OF CABUL.

RAWUL PINDEE--EXPEDITION TO CASHMERE--INDIAN

HEAT--VISIT OF THE AMEER OF CABUL--LADY IN A

RIDING-HABIT--DEATH OF BISHOP MILMAN--ABSURD

STATEMENT--PESHAWUR--CHOKEDARS--NOWSHERA--HORSE-DEALERS--M’KAY--WILD

SCENE--MARCH TO CASHMERE--MURREE--FAITHLESS

COOLIES--DAYWAL--TERRORS OF MY BEARER.

CHAPTER VII.

Rawul Pindee is one of the most favourite quarters, being so close to

the hill station of Murree. Four hours carries one from the breathless

heat of the plain to the top of a mountain, with an elevation of seven

thousand four hundred and fifty-seven feet.

My wife and I were eager to make an expedition during the leave

season into Cashmere. The mountains guarding the Happy Valley had

stood out, a grand rampart, clear on the horizon, a great part of

our march. Our plans were all arranged. Light tents were bought, and

leave was obtained, when cholera made its appearance in the regiment.

Of course going away then was out of the question. The married people

were sent--to their great discomfort--into camp, and extraordinary

precautions were taken to prevent the spread of the disease, the

horrors of which we had so lately seen.

When encamped at Agra, under the outer flap of my tent, two unfortunate

natives lay down and died during the night, only the canvas walls

between them and us. Mercifully, the present outbreak was a slight one.

But, when we could get away, there was not time left, during the leave

season, for our journey to Cashmere, so we contented ourselves with a

visit to Murree, the sanitorium of this district.

No one who has not experienced real hot weather in the plains, can

understand what Indian heat is. It means darkness, for one thing, as

every ray of light is carefully excluded. In our darkened house at

Pindee, with every precaution taken, for a fortnight the thermometer

never varied, night and day, from 99°. But, oh, the joy of the first

rain! When doors and windows were thrown open, and we once again saw

each other!

Rawul Pindee was a very hospitable place. I remember dining with

one of the civilians. It was a very grand party. Everything went

off charmingly. The soup was hot, the champagne well iced, and the

inevitable tinned salmon, with Tartare sauce, was in abundance. As I

observed that those who took salad tasted it, and left it alone, I took

none. Next day my wife called on our hostess, and found her nearly in

tears.

‘Oh, Mrs. Maxwell,’ she exclaimed, in horrified accents, ‘can you

believe it? The khansama made the salad with castor oil!’

We were quartered a year at Rawul Pindee, and then received orders to

march to Peshawur.

We remained twelve months at Peshawur, and although there was a

good deal of fever, yet we did not suffer so much as the 42nd Royal

Highlanders, whom we relieved, had done. During the time they were

quartered there that unfortunate regiment was decimated by cholera and

fever. Not only did they lose many men, but their pipers nearly all

succumbed.

The most noteable event which occurred when we were at that station was

the visit of the Ameer of Cabul, on his way to Umballa to meet Lord

Mayo. The whole division paraded to do him honour, and, as I commanded

a brigade, I had a good view of this treacherous man. Certainly his

appearance was very noble and soldier-like. He rode with the general

and staff in front of our line, mounted on a high-bred Turcoman mare.

I was so taken up looking at this perfect animal, that I had no eyes

for the rider; but I saw him often afterwards, and my remembrance of

Shere Ali is not that of an artful deceiver, but more of a frank, jolly

soldier. But at that time he was full of hope that our government

would stand by him, and his heart must have beat with pleasure when he

looked on the bronzed warriors of Britain as they were in those days.

Besides, he must have felt elated when he saw not only the chivalry of

India assembled to do him honour, but all the civilians, men and women,

crowding to get a sight of him.

My wife rode to the parade, but when she got to the ground the crowd

was so great that she dismounted from her nag and got into the howdah

on the back of an elephant, which sapient animal knelt down to allow

her to ascend the ladder, the only way to get up. As she had begun

the morning on horseback, she was dressed in a riding-habit, and had

on her head a tall hat. When the parade was over, and the regiments

were still formed up, Shere Ali rode away, and, passing the elephant

on which my wife was seated, seemed rather perplexed at her dress,

and evidently asked for an explanation. But before the Ameer returned

to his country he saw many things more astonishing than a lady in a

riding-habit.

During our stay at Peshawur, Bishop Milman, who was beloved by

everyone, visited the station. The greatest regret was expressed when

very soon after his visit to us he was drowned, having fallen into the

river when going up a slippery plank which had been placed to enable

him to go on board a steamer. My remembrance of this good man is, that

he was very stout, had a deep voice, and preached a most impressive

sermon on the text ‘Redeem the time.’

I mention all this to show how utterly absurd was the statement made

about him by a fraudulent mess-man. A regiment quartered near us

invited the bishop to dinner, an invitation which he accepted. It

appears that the mess sergeant had been for some time suspected of not

being very honest in his charges, and he was watched by one of the mess

committee. The day after the bishop had dined at the mess the accounts

were overhauled, and the enormous number of twenty glasses of brandy

and soda were charged against the mess guests.

‘This is impossible,’ said the officer making the inquiry, ‘the number

is too great.’

‘Not at all, sir,’ said the mess sergeant, ‘the bishop alone had

fourteen tumblers!’

We passed a very pleasant time at Peshawur, and regretted when the

order came for us to move to Nowshera. Peshawur is situated on the

River Bara, and is twelve miles from the Khyber Pass. The cantonments

are on a ridge at a higher elevation than the town, which is very

unhealthy. Cholera and fever commit great havoc there, and yet it

is a fair place to look upon, with its gardens and green trees, and

curiously-shaped bungalows built of mud, as earthquakes are very common

during the cold weather, and the houses formed of mud consolidated in a

wooden frame are less dangerous than stone-built edifices.

Peshawur cantonments suffer not only from fever, but from the

occasional inroads of robbers, who are very clever at their trade,

and steal horses in a wonderful manner. To save himself from their

attacks, a kind of black-mail is paid by every person who is head

of a house, and who desires security. This monthly tax is given to

men called ‘chokedars,’ and the recipients of the money belong to

the hill tribes that guard the Khyber Pass; magnificent men and true

as steel--so long as you pay them. They dress in a most picturesque

costume, and are armed with several weapons, one of which is generally

a blunderbuss. They march round your house all night, shouting at

intervals, ‘Khu-bardar!’ (take care), a signal to their brother

robbers that the sahib round whose house they are watching has paid

the black-mail. The man in my service, a very handsome fellow, was

always at his post; and I admired my brigand very much. One day he

asked for leave, and, after bringing a friend of his to take his duty

in his absence, he entered into a long story to my bearer, who, when I

asked him why my chokedar wished leave, gave me the information desired

in the following few words: ‘Your highness,’ said the bearer, with

his hands clasped, ‘this man wishes to go and murder his mother.’ Of

course, on learning that he was going on such a praiseworthy errand, I

gave him his _congê_, and I never saw him again.

We were much commiserated when our turn for being quartered at Nowshera

came round; but somehow we got on very well. Polo became a great

institution, and we fraternised well with the cavalry and native

regiments we found there. The Guides, at Murdan, a march across the

river from Nowshera, always made any of us who visited them more than

welcome. So, what with excursions to Peshawur, and occasional visits

of friends passing up and down the Grand Trunk road, time passed

pleasantly enough.

Nowshera is one of the hottest stations in the Punjaub--surrounded as

it is by sandy hills--and when we first went to it there were no trees.

Many hundreds were planted under my rule, and I am always gratified to

hear that there is quite an avenue now from the barracks to the church.

Camels are the great enemies of trees. Carefully as the young growth

may be guarded, a long neck suddenly protrudes from the line of moving

animals, and the top of a tree is nipped off, and its future beauty

spoiled. But camels are not the only enemies trees may have; for, at

my old home at Monreith, in Scotland, when this century was young, my

father was possessed of many race-horses, one of which won the Leger.

The stables are at some distance from the house, and my grandfather

had planted several trees, which have grown up with forked tops. This

unfortunate disfigurement was caused by the jockeys, on their way to

the stables, flicking off the tops of the young trees with their riding

whips; at least, so the old people at home say.

Nowshera is forty miles from Peshawur. When we were there, in 1868,

there was nothing to be seen but a large barracks like a prison

situated on the right of the Trunk Road from Peshawur to Attock. When

the leave season came round, there was no cholera to prevent me getting

away, so I decided to apply for six months’ leave, and to spend them

in Cashmere. Our tents, three in number, were as light as they could

possibly be made. I took the precaution to have one of them thoroughly

waterproof, as a refuge in very bad weather, but it proved unnecessary,

as even in the trial of long continued rain none of the other tents

leaked.

The horses and _impedimenta_ preceded us by a few days from

Nowshera, and we were to overtake them at Rawul Pindee. My wife’s

steed, called by her ‘Nila,’ was a gentle, well-bred, grey Cabul, full

of spirit when required. The way it came into my possession was rather

curious. During the time we were at Peshawur, the late General Haly was

in command, and, among many other good qualities, he knew a horse right

well.

I have sometimes accompanied him into the town of Peshawur, where there

were several horse-dealers. It was a risky thing going along the narrow

streets of that town, filled as they were with wild-looking Afghans and

Affriedees armed to the teeth; but we never were insulted. A dealer

told General Haly that he had a horse, and invited him to see it. This

visit ended in my buying the nag for a very small sum.

Next day the dealer came to my bungalow accompanied by a young Afghan,

who was leading the horse. This young man placed the rope holding the

steed in my hand. He put his arms round the animal’s neck, kissed it

on the forehead, burst into tears, and then disappeared. Of course we

asked an explanation of this scene, and were informed by the dealer

that the young Afghan had come to Peshawur and lost all his money (most

probably to the dealer). He had nothing left but his horse, and so he

sold it, ‘and your royal highness has got a bargain,’ said the dealer,

finishing his story, a conclusion which meant a demand for backsheesh.

And Nila was a right good nag. My pony, called Silver Tail, was the

most active, savage little brute I ever saw. He could walk very fast,

and scrambled over rocks in a wonderful manner.

I cannot start on our Cashmere journey, during which we met with some

adventures, without mentioning my wife’s maid, M’Kay. She was born in

the Highlands, and a more devoted, warm-hearted woman never lived. She

rests in her grave at Nowshera, but she is most kindly remembered by

both my wife and myself, for whose comforts she made many sacrifices.

It was on a fine evening in April, when the fiery sun was dipping

behind the wall of mountains that guard, what alas! has been too well

named, the ‘Valley of Death,’ that we left Nowshera in a dāk carriage.

The usual difficulty of getting the horses to start was at length

overcome, and, with the accompaniment of whips cracking and men

shouting, the little nags dashed off at a gallop, which they kept up

for nearly the whole stage of seven miles. Fresh, wild-looking steeds

were then harnessed, and we started again, with the same cracking of

whips and shouting, the frightened animals tearing along over the

beautifully-made Trunk Road.

Thus we hastened until we arrived at the banks of the mighty Indus.

The river was tearing down in full summer flood. The bridge of boats,

which was the usual means of crossing, had been removed, as was always

done at this season. Our only way to transport ourselves and effects

over, was by boats. We left the gharry here, and had to embark in an

enormous barge. What a wild scene it was! The moon shone brightly

on the troubled waters of the sacred river, which rushed along in

frightful rapidity. The naked boatmen, armed with huge poles instead

of oars, appeared like the forms we see in a feverish dream. When

we were seated in this boat, which we could imagine to be Charon’s,

the word was shouted, and, by a vigorous push, we were sent out into

the wild rush of waters. The black figures strained every nerve to

keep our craft’s head straight for the opposite shore, but the stream

whirled us down the dark river which surged around us. Our crew made a

tremendous effort, and we felt ourselves swept out of the main current

into comparatively smooth waters, while the foaming river hurried along

in furious haste. Then came the slow and arduous process of rowing up

against the strong current to the place of disembarkation at Attock.

Here we found two other gharries awaiting us, and, without further

adventures, we went on the remainder of our way. The sun was rising

when we trotted into Rawul Pindee. We halted at Roberry’s Hotel during

the heat of the day, and in the evening drove out to Barracao, a dāk

bungalow at the foot of the hills, where we found our advance guard of

servants and horses awaiting us.

Very early the next morning we may say we began our march to Cashmere.

My wife was mounted on Nila. M’Kay was conveyed in a dandy, a kind of

a sack fastened to a pole and carried by two coolies. I was on Silver

Tail, and, the word being given, off we started, our four dogs, full

of glee, racing before us. Quite dark when we left Barracao, the sun

had risen by the time we got among the hills, but his light did not

reveal much beauty of scenery. We were shut in almost the whole way by

hills, covered for the most part with scrubby underwood, here and there

diversified by patches of cultivation.

A constant stream of natives, donkeys, and mules seemed to be going

up and down the mountain. Occasionally we passed a cart heavily laden

with furniture and boxes plodding its weary way, at the rate of little

more than a mile an hour, to where the anxious owners of its contents

had been most probably expecting its arrival for many days. Sometimes

minus a wheel, it reclines by the wayside, the servants in charge

sitting calmly round the wreck, smoking the pipe of contentment. The

four unyoked bullocks chew the cud, little caring how long matters

progress--or rather do not progress--in the same way.

We enjoyed the morning ride very much. There was an elastic feeling in

the air that recalled to our memory the Highlands of Scotland when the

sun shone brightly in our far-away home, and our own glorious mountains

towered around, clothed in their brilliant haze of purple heather.

That night we halted at ‘Tret,’ and the next morning rode into Murree.

Murree was in 1868 a pretty, green-wooded place, but it lacked the

grandeur of the other hill stations we had visited. Its precipices are

banks, its mountains hills, compared with those of Simla or Mussoorie.

It has no snowy range, like that grand chain of mountains one sees from

the heights of Landour.

We passed some very pleasant days at Murree with Colonel (now Sir

Samuel) Browne, G.C.B. His pretty two-storied house was situated on the

side of a hill, which could only be reached by a very break-neck path.

We were warmly welcomed by our kind and charming hostess, and enjoyed

our visit very much. Murree is the starting-point for Cashmere, and

the hiring of coolies to carry the baggage, &c., &c., is all completed

here, for everything must be carried by men. After a most arduous

undertaking, we succeeded at length in making our final arrangements,

and, having said farewell to our kind hosts, we got on our horses and

started for Cashmere.

All our baggage was carried by coolies. Those in British territory

were a grumbling lot, who never were satisfied, and ran away very

often, when they had been paid, as the civil authorities in those

days insisted that the coolies should receive their small fee before

starting on the journey.

We rode along the wooded road that leads from Murree, breathing the

balmy afternoon breeze, which was laden with the sweet perfume of the

pine forest. How glorious it was to feel free from all troubles, and to

leave behind us all annoyances!... What is this we see before us, left

in the solemn woods? Our bedding, deserted by the coolie whose duty

it was to carry it, and who had absconded altogether. I shouted, but

only echo answered. The evening was closing fast, and nothing could be

done. All along the line of march various articles belonging to us were

left nestling among the mountain flowers, so we gave up attempting to

collect our baggage, as some of our servants formed a rear-guard, and

we pushed on to Deywal.

Deywal is a good-sized village, situated on the right side of a deep

gorge, traversed by a stream, which flows into the Jhellum some miles

down the mountain. There is now a good dāk bungalow near the

village, but in 1868 there was only a rest-house. A couple of chairs, a

table, and a charpoy (the bedstead of India), formed the furniture of

this inhospitable dwelling, as in India travellers provide all their

own necessaries of life, and our comforts were resting on the line of

march, so we had to make the best of it; but our cook, having preceded

us, we got some dinner. We had to repose our wearied limbs without any

mattress, sheets, or pillows. My wife gallantly placed her head on her

leather hand-bag, and declared she was ‘very comfortable.’ I used the

privilege of a British soldier, and grumbled to my heart’s content.

Previous to retiring for the night, we sat outside, enjoying the cool

evening air. Immediately in front of us was the deep valley dividing us

from high mountains on the other side. Light sparkled on this dark and

lowering curtain from villages scattered over the distant view. High

up on these fir-clad hills we could only guess, by the aid of the soft

light of the moon, where our soldiers, who were occupied in making a

princely road from Murree to Abbottabad, were encamped. The whole scene

was grand to a degree, and as we adjourned for the night we cast our

longing eyes towards the Cashmere hills, whose everlasting snow seemed

ghost-like in the moon’s white beams.

In the morning a miserable, forlorn-looking object arrived with a

lantern in his hand. This poor wretch sat down and wept! To my dismay,

I recognised my bearer. This draggled-looking object was generally a

most consequential little man--of very high caste, and so honest that

he could be trusted with any amount of money, and not a farthing would

be purloined by him. My two bullock-trunks and a lantern he considered

his special charge, and often afterwards, high up in the mountains of

Cashmere, this little man might have been seen, with the lantern in one

hand, and laden with his copper cooking-pots, which no one was of high

enough caste to carry except himself. He had passed a night of misery;

in dread that the thieves would rob the ‘Sahib’s’ things. He was also

in deadly fear that bears would demolish himself, and in terror lest

evil spirits of the mountains might carry him away to some far off

Gehenna; and--what in reality was the greatest trial of all--he was

starving.

Once a day this high-caste Hindoo would approach me with clasped hands,

and exclaim, in Hindostanee, ‘Provider of the poor, may I go and eat

bread?’ And then he would disappear, and for two hours was occupied

cooking and eating his rice, which was a religious function altogether.

When pressed with work, he would not eat at all till his labour was

over.

This was a most trying event. He had been so occupied packing at Murree

that he had postponed his hour of cooking till arrival at Deywal, and

then the ‘budmashes,’ the brigands of coolies, had deserted him, and he

was left all night starving among the bears and the evil spirits! This

was enough to account for his misery, so I told him to go to his ‘rhoti

khana;’ and he returned two hours after, the bright and active factotum

he always was.

As the morning advanced, our baggage arrived. All the stray mules of

Deywal were sent out, and in time brought in everything.

CHAPTER VIII.

CASHMERE.

MARCH TO KOHALLA--CROSSING THE JHELLUM--ACCIDENT TO A

BOAT--ASCENT OF THE DUNNA PASS--BARRADURRIES, OR REFUGES--TOMB

OF A YOUNG CAVALRY OFFICER--SUDDEN STORM--CHICKAR--THE

DOCTOR--AN EARLY START--WONDERFUL TOMASHA WALLA--BACKSHEESH--THE

PEOPLE OF CASHMERE--HEAVY TAXATION--TREATY.

CHAPTER VIII.

Our next march was to Kohalla on the banks of the Jhellum. It is a

pleasant ride down to the valley, and then through flowering shrubs and

green fir-trees, and past high rocks till we arrived at the comfortable

hotel, situated near the river. Across that foaming mass of troubled

waters we had to pass, and then we should be in Cashmere; for the

Jhellum divides the territory of the Maharajah from that of Great

Britain.

There was only one way to proceed--in a flat-bottomed boat, which on

inspection proved but a rickety craft. The horses and baggage crossed

over in safety, and then our turn came. On entering the boat our

confidence was not increased by finding a big hole in its side, which

was stuffed with grass, and a large stone placed against the bundle to

keep it safe!

The same performance was gone through as at Attack, on the Indus. Our

boat was towed some distance up the river, and then cast off. We flew

across, and made the opposite shore, some way down the stream, when,

a rope being thrown, was caught by coolies, and we were hauled into

smooth waters, and landed.

A fortnight after we had crossed, a brother officer, on his way to

Cashmere, had passed this ferry, followed by his servants, horses,

and baggage. The boat, cast off from the opposite shore, flew over

the boiling, surging waters. The rope was thrown and caught by the

coolies, but it was rotten, and the boat, with all its living contents,

was swept away, the mad waters engulfing everything that was in this

miserable old coble.

But now we are landed in the Maharajah’s country. The day was far

spent when we managed to start our avant guard of coolies with tents

and baggage. We decided, therefore, to advance only a few miles up the

mountain to a level ground, where there was water and sufficient space

to pitch our tents. The ascent of Dunna is not along green sides and

grassy slopes, but in the dry bed of a winter’s torrent. Leaving the

village where we had disembarked, the path proceeds for a short way

along the level, and then straight up the stony course of the stream.

My wife started on foot. With her Alpine staff in her hand, she bravely

faced the hill. I rode as long as I could, but the scrambling, sliding

pony was most disagreeable, so I was obliged to walk.

To describe our ascent is impossible, as no one can form an idea equal

to it who has not attempted the Dunna Pass. Intensely hot in the

valley, it became cooler as we scrambled and tumbled along the rocky

path; and at length we arrived at the Dunna Dhuk, the only level site

before reaching the top. The evening had closed in, but the moon rose

clear and splendid from behind the lofty mountain up which we were

toiling. The wild night-hawk’s shrill note echoed through the still,

dark valleys, and the light and shadow deepened as the moon rose

brighter and more glorious every minute. Our tents were pitched by our

active servants on a kind of terrace formed for cultivation, and our

dinner was nearly cooked before we had time to look about us. Our only

light was the silvery moon.

We asked for milk, and one of our Cashmerian retainers proceeded a

short distance, and, facing the valley, shouted our wants in a loud and

prolonged call. The answer came, weird-like, from a long way off, and,

in due course, rich milk was brought to us in abundance. It was very

pleasant on that cool mountain side after the heat of the plains, and

we soon retired to our Swiss cottage tent to seek the repose we had

honestly earned.

It was strange to awake and find ourselves encamped on the hills in

Cashmere; and, when M’Kay brought us our morning cups of tea, we were

ready to begin another day’s march. The tents were struck and sent

away, and the final orders given. My wife, as usual, faced the brae on

foot, and I rode Silver Tail till I found it impossible. So I handed

him over to my syce, greatly to the knowing one’s internal satisfaction.

As the morning advanced, the sun’s bright rays tinged with golden tints

the surrounding scenery. The loving calls of the black partridges

sounded sweet and home-like. The early breeze was laden with the

perfume of mountain flowers. It was charming, but the climb was

terrible. We were glad when we reached the plateau which overlooked

Dunna, and were enabled to mount our nags once more.

As we halted at the refuge built by the Maharajah of Cashmere,

we were very thankful to take possession of the queer habitation

which he has dedicated to the use of travellers. These refuges are

called barradurries, and have no claim to beauty of architecture. A

mud wall surrounds a double-storied mud house. The ground floor is

uninhabitable, but a rickety stair leads to the upper floor and into

a narrow passage, on each side of which there are empty rooms. The

passage ends in a covered verandah in front of the rooms. The doors are

rough planks of deodar, without any attempt at fastening. The window

shutters are the same, with no glass.

Many plans had to be adopted to keep the doors and windows closed.

My wife and M’Kay made these wretched places most comfortable with

gaily-striped purdahs, and many a pleasant hour have we passed in the

numerous barradurries scattered over the land of Cashmere. On the

right hand, as we entered the enclosure at Dunna, a tomb is erected to

the memory of a young cavalry officer, who broke a blood-vessel after

walking up the steep ascent by which we had come. How sad are these

graves scattered over India! As the road into Cashmere no longer passes

over Dunna, that memento is very lonely now. Few travellers pause to

read the record of that young life’s untimely end.

Very early next morning we left Dunna for Maira. The path zigzagged

down through a wooded brae, and became altogether lost among huge

boulders as we approached the river we had to cross. The ascent on the

opposite side was steep and rugged. Clouds which had been collecting

threatened a storm, and wild gusts of wind foretold rain. We got into

the barradurrie, and settled ourselves comfortably. The distant thunder

rolled grandly through the mountains above and around us. The elements

seemed to be collecting forces for a grand attack at night, and when

the darkness came the storm burst upon us, flash succeeded flash in

rapid succession, and the thunder pealed forth its mighty voice; the

wild wind shrieked through our mud-formed house, and drove the rain

and hail into our innermost rooms. The doors and window-shutters

banged about in a mad jubilee of diabolical glee. After committing

all sorts of havoc, the drunken furies flew before the gale, and the

peaceful stars peeped out from the blue heavens, while the waning moon

shone sadly on the wearied earth. Still, in the now quiet scene, we

could hear the far-off thunder echoing through the high mountains of

Cashmere. These sudden storms are very grand.

The next morning broke bright and fine, and, as we rode away, the fresh

perfume was sweet to us who had left the burning plains so lately.

We rode through wooded, park-like scenery, aptly described by an

Irish assistant-surgeon we met as ‘quite like a domain.’ Instead of

Fenians to annoy the dwellers, there are leopards which destroy the

poor Cashmerian wood-cutters. A day or two previous to our arrival, a

shepherd had been killed. Our way led up the mountain, and then through

woods; our path descended to a river which flows along the valley. High

up on the hill on the opposite side was Chikar, the end of that day’s

march. Before crossing the river, we passed through many rice-fields,

which, as they resemble wet bogs, are not pleasant places to ride in.

Numerous cheerful-looking peasants were engaged planting bunches of

green grass in rows in the wet and muddy ground.

After climbing the steep mountain, we arrived at Chikar, quite ready

for the ‘doctor,’ a combination of milk, eggs, and rum beat up

together, which M’Kay always had prepared for us, and which seemed to

increase our enjoyment of a later breakfast.

During the day we sat out on the flat roof of the barradurrie, whence

the view was magnificent. In the distance we could see a far-off snowy

range, while nearer was a splendid panorama of mountains cultivated

at their base, with the rocky summits lost in snow and impenetrable

clouds. Every now and then a great dark shadow would skim across the

mountain-side, then fade away, and the bright sun would light up the

green grass on hill and dale. Faintly borne on the breeze were the

voices in the valley beneath, while soaring high in the air a royal

eagle would pause for a moment, then swoop away and be lost to our

sight.

As we were now deserted by the moon, our early start was made in

comparative darkness. When the morning broke, we overlooked the valley

of Jhellum. We descended for three miles, by a winding, rocky path,

to the left bank of the river, and rode along its wooded bank till we

arrived at Huttie. The wonderful river’s roaring voice drowns every

other sound, and it insists on being listened to. On the opposite side

of the Jhellum is seen the road from Abottabad.

On arrival at Huttie, we found our camp pitched near the rapid Jhellum,

the ground chosen by our advance-guard being the dry bed of a mountain

torrent. There was at Huttie a most wonderful Tomasha Walla, who most

perseveringly insisted that we should see him cross the river, a

pleasure which with equal resolution we declined; but by dint of never

leaving us, whether we sat outside or inside our tents, or went for a

stroll, he got his own way at last, and we reluctantly climbed a cliff

to obtain a good view of our tormentor. The river at this place, pent

in between high cliffs, comes tearing down in great angry waves, which

seem as if no living thing could for a moment contend with them.

Standing on a rock some distance from us up the river, a black figure,

with hardly anything on to speak of, and grasping in his arms a

‘mussack,’[1] fixed our attention. As soon as he saw we were looking at

him, he threw the ‘mussack’ into the water, and followed in a trice. It

was surprising to see the ease with which he battled with the waves,

turning heels over head, standing almost upright, then, mounting

astride of his ‘mussack,’ and guiding himself to the other side of the

river.

His performances seemed to give unfailing delight to the inhabitants

of Huttie, who looked on as though they had not seen him go through

the same feats every day of the season. Of course the Tomasha Walla’s

re-appearance on the scene was followed by a demand for ‘backsheesh.’

Have not all travellers in the East written folios on the subject of

backsheesh? I must add my iota to the budget. It is the most irritating

of demands. Not a man in Cashmere will ever accept the payment that

is offered to him, no matter that it is twice as much as the service

he has done requires. He will whine and beg for more, going through

a string of reasons why he should get it. At last, having either

succeeded in obtaining an increase of pay, or else seeing he has

no chance of prevailing, he begins a fresh clamour for backsheesh.

I grieve to say that our experience of the inhabitants of Cashmere

proved them to be thoroughly false, utterly ungrateful, and desperately

extortionate. Honour and honesty they have none. Find them out in

some lie or fraud, they grin from ear to ear, never dreaming of being

ashamed of themselves.

Ground down as they are by the system of perpetual oppression, we

ceased to wonder at the lowness of their morals as we saw more of the

working of the rule they live under. No nation in the world is taxed

as the Cashmerians are (or were, for I write of 1868). Two thirds of

everything is taxed for the benefit of the Maharajah, and to see that

this is duly paid a host of officials are employed, who in their turn

rob the unfortunate ratepayers, till (I am within the mark) I have been

assured by those who ought to know that three-fourths of every man’s

possessions are yearly taken from him in this grievously burdened land.

It was very long before we understood the small enthusiasm shown when

we congratulated the people on their smiling crops and fair prospect of

a heavy harvest. What matters it to them whether the produce be good or

bad?--enough will be left them for their subsistence, and more for seed

for next year’s sowing. But all the rest finds its way, much lightened

by the hands it passes through, to the Maharajah’s coffers. Our farmers

at home grumble, but they live in a free country--let them be thankful.

The Cashmerian sows his land, a government official comes down on his

inspection visit, and desires that each field should produce so many

maunds of grain. In vain the farmer protests that his land cannot yield

such a crop; he is not listened to, and woe to him if to the last seer

the number of maunds be not forthcoming. He is sold out--everything he

has is taken from him to pay his debt to the Maharajah.

We saw this beautiful and fatherly care of a prince for his people in

full form in the Lolab Valley. We were riding past a village along a

narrow path; it was getting dusk, and we had to leave our road because

four or five men who were sitting down did not get out of the way. It

was an unusual rudeness. Next morning we passed the same way, and there

were the men still on the ground. No wonder they had not moved, even

for a sahib, for their legs were bound fast and firm in stocks, there

to remain till it was the Maharajah’s good pleasure to release them.

All that they could call their own had been sold to pay for deficient

crops, but much more was still marked against them.

‘Cashmere was conquered in A.D. 1587 by Akbar’s brother-in-law, the

Rajah of Jeypore, when the Mahomedan king of that province was enrolled

among the nobles of the court; and this lovely valley, the paradise of

Asia, became the summer retreat of the emperors of Delhi.’--_History

of India, by John Clark Marsham, vol. i._ ‘It was conquered by Runjeet

Sing in 1819.’--_Ibid. vol. iii._

‘In 1846, the Sikh army having invaded our territory, Sir Henry Harding

issued a proclamation confiscating the Cis Sutlege possessions of the

Lahore crown, and he annexed the Jullunder Doab, or district lying

between the Sutlege and the Beeas, to the Company’s dominions, by which

he obtained security for our hill stations, and a position which gave

us control of the Sikh capital (Lahore). The expenses of the campaign

were computed at a crore and a half of rupees--which the Lahore state

was required to make good--but the profligacy of the ministers and the

rapacity of the soldiers had exhausted the treasury, and, of the twelve

crores Runjeet Sing left in it, there remained scarcely fifty lacs of

rupees to meet the demand. Sir Henry therefore determined to take over

the province of Cashmere and the highlands of Jummoo in lieu of the

remaining crore. Since the death of Runjeet Sing, the powerful Raja of

Jummoo, Golab Sing, had always cherished the hope of being able, by

some happy turn of circumstances, to convert his principality into an

independent sovereignty. During the recent contest he had played the

part of an interested neutral, watching the contest, and prepared to

side with the strongest. When called to assume the office of minister

at Lahore, he negotiated with the Governor-General as much for his

own interests as for those of the State. There could be little doubt

that a clear understanding regarding the possession existed between

him and the British Government; and hence it created no surprise when

he stepped forward and offered to pay down the crore of rupees, on

condition of being constituted the independent Raja of Cashmere and

Jummoo. The sovereignty of these provinces was accordingly sold to him,

but it must not be forgotten that he received only an indefeasible

title to that which he actually possessed at the time. Sir Henry

Hardinge by this stroke of policy obtained funds to cover the expenses

of the war.’[2]--_History of India, vol. iii._

CHAPTER IX.

THE VALE OF CASHMERE.

MEDICAL SCIENCE IN CASHMERE--LONG AND FATIGUING

MARCH--CHIKOTI--FORT OF OREE--FAQUEERS--BRIDGE OF

ROPES--AN OLD FRIEND--PLAYFUL MONKEYS--TEMPLE OF

BHUMNIAR--PRIMITIVE FISHING--BARRAMULA PASS--THE HAPPY VALLEY

AT LAST--FORMATION OF THE VALE OF CASHMERE--CHANGE IN MODE

OF TRAVELLING--DONGAHS--HERONS--THE WALLOOR LAKE--FORT OF

SRINAGUR--PUG AND THE AFGHAN WARRIOR--THE MURDERER OF LORD MAYO.

CHAPTER IX.

The heat was very great at Huttie, for we were in a hollow, where no

breeze seemed to reach us, and the mosquitoes were more annoying than

usual. I do not know what we should have done in the event of illness.

We had no medicine to speak of but quinine, which we found very useful,

for the servants constantly had fever, and the faith they had in the

mysterious white powder was implicit. Villagers and coolies used to

come to us to beg for a little, and we had to harden our hearts, and

give to those only who required it.

Medical science is in a very backward state in Cashmere. A surgeon we

met at one of the halting-places told us that he had been entreated

by the head man of the district to come and see his daughter, who

was suffering from a disease of the eye. Our friend went at once to

the house, and found the poor girl in a terrible state. A native

practitioner had taken out her eye, and, having stuffed up the place

with wool, had left Nature to complete a cure, aided by a cloud of

flies. The wretched girl was suffering agonies under this treatment,

the whole side of her face being a mass of inflammation. Dr. ----

trusted that the measures he had taken would save her life. As it

came on to rain in the night, our tents were wet in the morning, but

fortunately our other set of tents had been sent on the night before.

We had a long and fatiguing march up and down hill, through rice

fields, and over so-called bridges. The bridges consist of two stout

logs, roughly fastened together with planks, with no parapets, and

with gaps of several feet between, which made the crossing of a rapid

stream a service of real danger to the horses and of most questionable

pleasure to pedestrians.

After a tremendous climb we came to scenery which recalled home to

our memories. We were hundreds of feet above the Jhellum, whose voice

sounded faint and far in the depths below us. For some miles our

road lay through park land: fine trees waved overhead, ferns nestled

at their roots, and the grass glittered in the sunlight, each blade

weighed down by a drop of the last night’s storm. A pair of eagles were

teaching their young ones to fly; higher and higher they soared in the

blue sky, till our eyes ached watching them. The sun was high in the

heavens when we found ourselves at the barradurrie of Chikoti.

Welcome sight! this white-washed house of rest, and still more welcome

the ‘doctor,’ which M’Kay had ready for us. M’Kay never seemed tired.

Her scons were always ready for breakfast. I do not know how we should

have got on without them, for we had no bread; but as long as we had

M’Kay’s scons we wished for nothing else, and, as we ate them, we

marvelled how she had strength to come such marches and do her work

so untiringly. True she had a dandy to be swung along in, but, if her

coolies were lazy, she used to lose patience, get out, and run along

the steep mountain path, with the swiftness and ease a childhood spent

in a Highland home had given her. Her bearers, for very shame, would

trot along behind her, either grumbling at this newly-developed

eccentricity in the ‘belattee memsahib,’ or grinning at her remarkable

appearance, as she skipped along from rock to rock, a tiny mug, in

which she concocted the ‘doctor,’ strapped on behind her waist, also

any article of dress my wife would require immediately on arrival.

When her pack was opened, the objects she had elected to carry were

slippers, brushes, comb, and sponge-bag--all ready for her mistress.

We slept the sleep of the weary that night. Four o’clock came too

soon, but we never gave ourselves any time to think of the miseries

of early rising, for every mile traversed before the sun climbed the

mountains and shone down on us was worth very much. There was not light

to see a white horse as we came into the cold morning air; the stars

were still out, and only a faint streak in the east showed us that

daylight was coming. How very enjoyable those early morning break-neck

rides and walks were, the fresh, exhilarating mountain breeze giving

us spirits to meet difficulties which in the plains would have seemed

insurmountable, the air fragrant with the breath of roses, jessamine,

and sweet brier, growing in thick and wild luxuriance. The scenery

was very grand; but this was the most fatiguing of all the marches. We

scrambled, struggled, climbed to the top of a rugged, precipitous path

only to descend again, and, having crossed a river, we ascended to the

plateau on which the Fort of Oree is situated. Built by the Sikhs, it

is now garrisoned by the troops of the Maharajah.

The barradurrie is near the fort, and is a two-storied house more than

usually tenanted--by fleas. As we sat out in the verandah, we were

attracted by the sound of a tom-tom, and in a short time appeared some

twenty faqueers, who halted in front of where we were seated, and

proceeded to bivouac. These faqueers are so-called holy men; they wear

no clothes, and their long and tangled locks are covered with ashes,

and their faces painted all sorts of colours. A more disgusting sight

than one of these men can hardly be imagined, but a detachment, such

as were now before us, had a grim kind of comicality. One of them more

hideous than the others possessed a queer-looking umbrella, which he

planted in the ground, and then extended himself at full length--the

picture of a loathsome animal. We were glad when these dreadful

creatures marched away again to the sound of their monotonous music.

There is a curious rope-bridge near Oree; two ropes parallel to each

other span the deep gully formed by steep rocks on each side of the

river. A chair is pulled across, in which the traveller sits and gazes

beneath him at the roaring waters, prepared to engulf him if the rope

were to break. Happily our way lay alongside, not across, the Jhellum.

What a lovely ride we had next morning! There were rough ups and downs

at first, but then came forests of deodars, through the breaks of which

the snow-covered mountains showed sharp and clear against the deep blue

sky. Mighty cliffs rose sheer up to our right in some places, while the

Jhellum on our left roared and thundered in its narrow passage over

huge rocks with such violence that it was impossible to hear ourselves

speak. My wife was riding in front, and, as she turned a corner, her

horse shied to the right. A weird-looking little man, with no garments

on at all, and his head anointed with cinders, was seated on the ground

in a shallow cave formed by a rock, thrumming on a native banjo, with

a huge cat clinging to his shoulder. He looked very uncanny, and took

no notice of us, but seemed quite contented with his surroundings. We

were informed that he was a very holy faqueer, who had lived there

summer and winter for many years, and that every passer-by gave him

something. So we added a few pice to his store.

Further on a long string of large monkeys were turning somersaults

disagreeably near to the high cliffs edge; but their glee seemed

unending, and they raced away above us, springing from branch to

branch, and moving the forest as by a partial breeze. We came to an old

ruin called Pandee Ghur, covered with ivy and buried among the dense

forest.

Still further on there is a splendid ruined temple called Bhumiar,

which is stated to be one of the finest specimens of a familiar kind of

architecture in Cashmere. At certain times of the year numerous Hindoo

pilgrims come to visit it. Perhaps the detachment of faqueers we saw at

Oree may have been returning from the pilgrimage. A thunderstorm which

came on hurried our proceedings, and the thunder rolled grandly as we

arrived at Naoshera.

Our halting-place for the night was in the barradurrie, close to the

rapid Jhellum. Here we got good-sized fish, which were caught in the

most primitive manner. A crooked pin fastened to a string and baited

with a mulberry, was quite enough to ensure a good plate of fish. I

must not forget to mention that the mulberries were in great abundance,

and, when we were in Cashmere, formed the staple article of food for

the lower classes. But the peasants are not particular, and devour

fruit, nowise careful whether the peaches, apples, or melons be ripe or

not.

We felt rather excited as we went off to bed, for the next day would

bring the fulfilment of a long looked-for event, our first sight of

the Vale of Cashmere. It was grey dawn when we marched away in the

morning. The Jhellum sounded louder than ever, its roar preventing any

conversation taking place, and making it expedient for us to ride on

in silence. At first we passed through rugged, narrow glens, but soon

we emerged into a grassy plain surrounded by high wooded hills, and,

amazing metamorphosis! the loud and angry Jhellum flowed smoothly and

quietly past with not a ripple on its waters.

And now, instead of rocky paths, our road was a perfect level, part

of it through rice-fields. Here we met an old friend returning to the

plains, accompanied by several coolies laden with trophies of the

chase, and delighted with his wanderings in the mountains of Cashmere.

There is a great charm in meeting an acquaintance when far from the

haunts of civilized life.

After some pleasant conversation, we bade adieu to our friend, and

continued our ride towards the wooded ridge in front of us, over which

lies the Barramula Pass, which is some hundred feet above the plain.

This was our last scramble, and when we arrived at the summit we both

exclaimed, ‘The Happy Valley at last!’

The top is covered with green grass and shrubs; the view is extensive

over a portion of the Vale of Cashmere. You see the Jhellum, the

Walloor Lake, Sopoor, and the hills enclosing the northern side. I must

own that the first glimpse is rather disappointing. Accustomed for

days to the majestic mountains crowned with snow, the dark, mysterious

valleys through which the river foamed and raged, the Vale of

Cashmere, with its green and fertile pastures, was a sudden change. But

soon our eyes became enamoured with the glowing charms of that sweet

view, and were quite ready to appreciate fully all its delights.

The valley at some time must have been a vast sheet of water. The whole

formation leads one to think this most probable, and the exit and drain

of this vast lake must have occurred when the mass of water made itself

an issue near Naoshera, and, tearing through the rocks, rushed madly

on, leaving behind it the gently flowing river.

The trees in the Happy Valley are the plane, the walnut, the poplar,

the mulberry, and the willow; while, higher up, the mountain sides

are covered with forests of deodar and pine. Fruit is very plentiful,

growing wild, and consists of mulberries, peaches, apples, pears,

cherries, grapes, walnuts, and melons. Vegetables are also in great

abundance. The soil is very rich, and during the summer there is no

climate to be compared with that of Cashmere.

If the country were fairly governed, and the population unoppressed

by tyrannical laws and injustice--in short, if we had retained

possession of it when it once was ours, what a paradise it would now

be! At present the flowers and fruit grow wild and untended, and the

poor peasants are miserable specimens of humanity. Many a better class

farmer has said to me, ‘Would that the English were our masters!’ When

the traveller reaches Barramula, he is in the actual Vale of Cashmere.

‘Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere,

With its roses, the brightest that earth ever gave?’[3]

And now we were to change our mode of travelling--to have a rest from

break-neck rides, and to travel luxuriously in boats. The horses were

to go on by easy marches to Srinagur, there to meet us. They had

carried us well over the hundred miles of difficult road we had come

from Murree. The rocks they had scrambled over had been very hard on

their feet, and repeatedly they had lost shoes; but I had come prepared

for such contingencies, each syce carrying with him four strong leather

boots, and whenever a shoe came off, a boot was slipped on to save the

hoof; at the halting-places a blacksmith could always be found to put

a shoe on, and we had our own with us. The natives keep only one size,

very small, and they have been known to give lockjaw to travellers’

horses from paring away the hoof to fit them. The Jhellum at Barramula

is smooth and broad.

M’Kay was much put out when she discovered there were no steamers, and

puzzled the coolies by vainly trying to find out from them the wharf

from which we were to embark. We had three boats, called dongahs. The

one my wife and I occupied, a flat-bottomed boat, with very pointed

extremities, was sixty feet long, six broad, and about two feet in

depth. A wooden roof, covered with matting, extended about half its

length, and other pieces of matting were fastened on to the sides of

the wooden frame, which can be closed at night and raised during the

day. The crew consisted of a whole family, who lived in the stern part

of the boat. The oars were short, with broad, heart-shaped paddles.

My wife and M’Kay made our gondola most comfortable. The sides of our

cabin were festooned with red and white curtains. In the centre,

hanging from the roof, were large mosquito-nets. During the day our

camp beds were pushed out of the way, and a table took their place, on

which were our books and writing materials. There was room also for an

impromptu sofa of cloaks, pillows, &c.

M’Kay had another dongah, which she shared with our dogs, and the third

one contained our servants and cuisine. Oh! the delicious sense of

repose--after toiling for days among rocks and mountain paths, to feel

ourselves resting in quiet and peace! It was sufficient, for a time,

just to live, and lazily to look at the merry birds glancing past in

the sunlight, and every now and then seeing them drop into the calm

waters.

At first we had to cross a broad part of the river, and one of our

crew stood in the bows, and with a pole pushed us along, while the

remainder, in the stern, propelled us with the heart-shaped paddles.

We soon reached the opposite bank, when most of the family jumped out

on the path, and towed us by a long line, and so we glided past green

pastures, in which hundreds of mares and foals were quietly grazing,

past sedgy pools, where numerous herons arose before us. They had no

fear, these royal birds, protected by the Maharajah, as a heron’s plume

is a token of nobility.

‘When day had hid his sultry flame

Behind the palms of Baramoule,’[4]

we reached the town of Sopoor, which is built on both sides of the

river, and joined together by a bridge resting on wooden pillars.

Innumerable wild ducks skimmed past us, and the large mahseer rose to

the flies which hovered over the mirror-like water during the still

evening hour.

Before sunrise next day, we had left our moorings at Sopoor, and,

shortly after, entered the Walloor Lake. It is the largest lake in

Cashmere, and the Jhellum flows through it. The boatmen are very

superstitious about crossing the lake. Offer them any amount of

backsheesh, they will not attempt to enter it after the sun has set.

The Walloor is often visited by storms and sudden squalls, and the

flat-bottomed boats, with their heavy top-hamper, are not suitable for

a gale of wind. So we entered the lake after sunrise. The mosquitoes

were innumerable. I sat out on the prow of our boat to get a shot at

the wild fowl, which crossed and recrossed before our gondola, and the

mosquitoes covered my hands with white lumps and blood; for they are

easily killed, and are powerful blood-suckers.

The lake is choked up in many places by reeds and morass. Where the

boats pass on their passage to Srinagur the whole surface of the water

is covered with water-lilies. The scene was fairy-like. High towering

around us were mountains tipped with snow, while green pastures

encircled the lake. In the far distance, in our front, the fort of

Srinagur rose proudly on the horizon, like the Acropolis of Athens,

while on our left the heights above Manisbul Lake marked the entrance

to that lovely spot, and in the hazy distance on our right, could just

be seen the glaciers which show where Gulmurg, the ‘Field of Flowers,’

nestles, a green valley among the snow-clad hills. In the evening,

we entered Shadipore, ‘The Place of Marriage,’ where the Scind river

effects a junction with the Jhellum.

A Hindoo temple on a solid block of masonry is shaded by a chenár.

Tradition says that this tree, which is situated in the middle of the

river, never grows. The boatmen drew up our squadron to leeward of a

large barge not laden with violets, so we insisted on being taken to

some other place. We were accordingly moved to a fine open space, and

moored to a post sunk deep in the mud.

My wife’s favourite pug jumped out of M’Kay’s boat at the first place

where we halted, and now was nowhere to be seen. A great hunt ensued,

and we were beginning to despair of her recovery when the little

black-faced beauty made her appearance quite unconcerned. My wife was

very fond of this troublesome pet, which had most endearing ways, but,

like all her breed, was very selfish and exacting, her mistress often

being compelled to sacrifice her own comfort to that of her favourite

‘Polly,’ a name bestowed on her in remembrance of the very kind donor,

who was wife of the Commissioner of Peshawur.

One day at Peshawur, a tall, fine-looking Afghan made his appearance

at our bungalow, and, having been admitted, entered the drawing-room,

and saluting, produced a little black-nosed animal, which was Pug. The

armed warrior again saluted, and retired, leaving Polly distracted

under a chair, attached to a long chain. She was soon coaxed from

her retreat, and took at once to her new mistress, for whom she ever

afterwards showed a sort of selfish affection.

The tall Afghan was a retainer of the commissioner. His gentle care of

his sahib’s children was very remarkable. He was often in attendance

on them when they went out to ride or drive; a kindly, gentle warrior

he seemed to be. But these Kybaries have strange customs, and one is

the ‘blood feud.’ Like the Corsican vendetta, it descends from father

to son. This man was one day in the city of Peshawur, where he saw a

member of a family with whom he had a blood feud. Perhaps he regretted

having come across his enemy, but the very honesty of the bold soldier

may have made him feel bound to pursue his foe. Anyway, he followed

the man, and on the road to Jumrood overtook him and slew him. Had he

waited but a short time, he would have been out of British territory;

but the deed had been done in our queen’s dominions, where blood

feuds are not recognised by the law. He was imprisoned and tried for

murder, the punishment for which is death. Deep regret was felt for

the faithful retainer, who, however, was not condemned to die, but to

undergo imprisonment for life in the Andaman Islands. Alas! for this

mountain warrior, imprisonment was far worse to him than death. Death

he despised--but imprisonment! We must look at his position in his own

light. We must remember that he was brought up in the faith of blood

feuds. We must bring to bear all in his favour _now_, for soon we

shall loathe his name. This Afghan mountaineer, this man who was the

gentle attendant on children, who carried Pug so carefully into our

bungalow at Peshawur, was the murderer of Lord Mayo!

In the evening it looked like rain, but we did not much mind. We

settled ourselves in our tent-like cabin and laughed at the mosquitoes

which howled outside our curtains, when all of a sudden everyone on

board seemed demented. I jumped up and found the dress of a Highlander

quite unsuited to a gale of wind. My wife also sadly deplored her

scanty costume. The usually quiet going gondola was flying in a most

distracted manner before the wind; our gray, red, and white curtains

flew out like long, dishevelled locks; our mosquito-nets jumped up

and down in extraordinary fits; our boatmen’s family announced their

numbers with great loudness, for in the back part of our vessel the

voices of male and female old age joined in fiendish clamour with those

of youth and babyhood, and our dogs barked incessantly! On flew our

dissipated and ill-behaved, flat-bottomed barge, which had broken loose

from the bonds that bound it to the muddy bank, and had started off on

a lark, when the sudden squall had rushed down from the mountains and

shouted ‘Come!’ How we were ever stopped, I know not; but, after half

an hour of great anxiety, the unwieldy and reckless, flat-bottomed

barge was made fast to the muddy bank, and we were left in peace to

repair damages.

CHAPTER X.

THE MAHARAJAH.

CHOWNI--SRINAGUR--WOODEN BATHING-HOUSES--BABOO MOHAS

CHANDER--OUR FUTURE DOMICILE--‘ME COME UP’--OUR

SHIKARRAH--SUMMUD SHAH, THE SHAWL-MERCHANT--ANCIENT

TEMPLES--THE MANUFACTURE OF CASHMERE SHAWLS--DINNER WITH THE

MAHARAJAH--A NAUTCH--THE MAHARAJAH’S ‘HOOKEM’--LORD MAYO’S

FETE AT AGRA--UNINVITED GUESTS--RISING OF THE LAKE--THE POPLAR

AVENUE--THE PARIAH DOG--CAUSE OF THE FLOOD.

CHAPTER X.

When morning broke we continued our voyage. As we had left the lake

the day before, the river was now more narrow, and twisted and turned

like a serpent in the green fields through which it made its way.

And then we came to Chowni, which was intended by Golab Sing to be

the dwelling-place of English visitors, but, owing to want of good

drinking-water, was never used.

We breakfasted under the shade of a grove of poplars, and then,

entering our gondolas again, we were towed up to Srinagur, the capital

of Cashmere. As we glided along, we had to pass the old gallows on

which many a mortal has suffered in days of yore; now it is seldom

used, but during our visit to Cashmere a culprit was executed on it,

and was left to hang there for days, filling the air with his horrid

presence. But when we passed the gallows was empty, and a weird-looking

old raven was perched on the cross-beam of the gibbet, croaking

dismally to itself about the good times of Golab Sing, which were

changed completely now. We had pictured this city to ourselves as a

scene of ruined palaces, but all we saw were crazy wooden houses with

pent roofs overlaid with earth and covered with grass and plants.

We passed some ancient temples, which seemed in their ruin to mark

the difference between the rotten buildings of the present day and

the massive architecture of a gone-by age. We glanced for a moment at

splendid marble cause-ways, hanging over hideous wooden bathing-places,

and dwellings erected on wooden piles close to gardens full of fruit

and flowers. As we struggled up the stream, and with difficulty got

under and past the wooden bridges which span the river, boats like our

own, but not so large, shot by us. In some were reclining the English

sahib, exploring. In others, larger and more crowded, were soldiers,

country people, and busylooking men. On each side of this centre

thoroughfare of the town were men and boys swimming and bathing. Not

a house but had a wooden bathing-place, and these were always full of

splashing human beings, while crowding the banks were female figures

washing clothes and children alternately. We swept past the Maharajah’s

palace, the golden roof of its temple being the only attraction there.

Leaving the last bridge, called Ameeri Kudal, we came to a wider

part of the river, and the place where the visitors’ bungalows are

situated opened out. It was a pleasant sight, the calm and placid

Jhellum, on the right bank of which were grand chenars--the Oriental

plane--overshadowing the curious little houses built for the

accommodation of the Maharajah’s British guests. As we toiled on,

a swift and smart-looking gondola drew up alongside, and the Baboo

welcomed us in the name of His Highness the Maharajah of Cashmere.

Baboo Mohas Chander was a courteous, smiling man. When he spoke, his

white teeth sparkled in the sunlight, but, when he ceased to address

us, a sudden darkness seemed to overspread his face, all because the

Baboo had shut his mouth. He informed us our house was ready, and we

found him always civil and attentive.

Ah, me! what a house! Our future domicile was like a square box divided

in the centre, the division being the floor of the upper story. Up a

rickety stair we ascended to our three rooms. The windows had no glass,

but had diamond-cut shutters, the peculiarity of which was that, when

tampered with, they invariably fell on the toes of the unwary. However,

we were delighted with our apartments. Hearing the sound of riders

passing by, we rushed to the window; the effect of which energetic

movement was to make everything in the room dance, as the floor was

very elastic.

As we gazed on the river so near us, and watched the gondolas skimming

past, we became aware that a crowd had assembled in front of our house.

‘Me papier-maché man--me show you fine things--_me come up_.’ ‘Me

Soubona jeweller--very cheap--_me come up_.’ ‘Me leather man--me

bring shot-bags, sandals--_me come up_.’ ‘Me shawl man--very fine,

very cheap--_me come up_,’ and so on, the ‘me come ups’ becoming

really alarming by the constant repetition of the words. So I assumed

the attitude of a popular candidate for parliamentary honours and

requested them to ‘retire till a future occasion,’ and, finding they

were losing time, they vanished.

Gradually the boats, riders, and pedestrians became fewer, night came

on apace, and we were glad to say ‘Good night.’ Next morning we engaged

a shikarrah, a miniature of the boat in which we had come up the river.

It was thirty-six feet long, by three and a half wide, and one foot

deep. Our shikarrah had a flush deck and awning. The crew consisted of

six men, who propelled the boat with heart-shaped paddles. These craft,

which are used by everyone like gondolas at Venice, seem to fly through

the water. My wife and I reclined on rugs and pillows, and gave the

word to proceed to Summud Shah, the great shawl-merchant. The entrance

to this great man’s house is by a flight of stone steps, which are

washed by the river. Through a fine gateway we passed into a courtyard,

and then, ascending stairs, we were ushered into the shawl-room. Summud

Shah received us arrayed in an ample gown, like a night-dress. He could

not speak a word of English, but by his courteous actions seemed to

say: ‘All I have is yours--if you pay me well.’ We were handed to

chairs placed on a divan, and then business began.

What a collection of magnificent shawls! But oh, how wearisome! Our

host gave us Ladok tea, which is not unpleasant to the taste. Instead

of cream, a slice of lemon floats in the cup. Summud Shah was the

banker at Srinagur, and was most attentive to our wants during the

whole of our stay in Cashmere. We saw two kinds of shawls. Those made

by loom, and those by hand.

Some time after this visit, we were wandering through a poor part of

the town, when we observed a number of men with very weak eyes. Our

guide informed us that these were workers of Cashmere shawls, and

that the work they were engaged in was the cause of the weakness of

their eyes, and in some of total loss of sight. We visited some of

their houses, and found them occupied sewing the graceful patterns

on small patches of canvas. When these are completed, they are all

united together, and form the beautiful shawls, some of which we had

been admiring. We were also told that, when the shawls were first

introduced, the inventors were in the custom of ascending the hill

above the town, from which there is a fine view of the Jhellum, winding

and turning in the valley beneath, and that the tortuous pattern of the

Cashmere shawls is a copy of the river’s windings.

I received an invitation to dine with the Maharajah. My wife was also

asked to accompany the Resident’s party, to see the fireworks which

were to be exhibited in the evening. So far as dinner was concerned,

there was amply sufficient to eat and drink, but on an occasion of

that sort one goes with rather a wish to be introduced to the host. My

experience of that one dinner party did not afford me an opportunity

of having that desire gratified. We had been requested to come camp

fashion, which means that each guest is expected to bring his own

plates, knives, forks, tumblers, napkins, &c. I landed at the mean and

dirty entrance to the palace, where the shouting boatmen seemed at war

with each other. I clambered up the steep stairs, but there was no

one to receive me, or to show me the way. I found myself at length in

a large dining-hall, in which some eighty khitmegars were making as

great a noise as the boatmen below, each servant endeavouring to secure

the best place for his master.

After getting past this pandemonium of waiters, I was shown a door,

through which I proceeded to an open terrace, where a number of chairs

were placed in a semicircle, many of them already appropriated by

other guests like myself--their occupants being officers on leave from

British territory--so I took possession of one of them.

In the open space in front of the seats two or three nautch girls were

going through that dreary and unmusical performance called a ‘nautch.’

In the meantime, I discovered some old friends, stranded like myself.

At length, as, somehow or other, everybody intuitively knew that dinner

was ready, a rush was made towards the door. Excited khitmegars seized

their masters and dragged them to the place they had secured for them.

I was charmed to find myself situated between a brother officer and

an old friend I had not met since the Crimean days. The table was

groaning with really a good dinner, for everything had been placed on

it at once. The champagne was Cutler’s best, and our little coterie

had our dinner and jokes in a very pleasant way. We had some fun about

the Maharajah’s hookem (order). I wanted a glass of iced water, and I

desired my servant to bring the water, and pour it into my silver mug.

A great man, clad in red, came behind my chair and informed me ‘that

it was the Maharajah’s hookem (order) that the tumblers were to be

taken to the water, and not the water to the tumblers.’ Verily it was

a jovial party. Then the Resident rose, and proposed the health of the

Maharajah. We cheered uproariously. Some one then proposed the health

of the Resident, ‘the representative of our beloved Queen,’ we soldiers

cheering loudly for our sovereign, more than for her representative.

The costumes worn by His Highness’s guests were peculiar; some

appearing in uniform, others in evening dress, while a number wore

ancient shooting-coats which bore testimony to hard work among the

mountains of Cashmere.

Had the head constable of Agra been present, he would have been sorely

puzzled. That functionary was on duty one evening at the Taj, when the

Governor-General, Earl Mayo, gave a fête, with kind hospitality, to

the residents at Agra. Several uninvited guests had tried to enter the

precincts of Viceroyalty on a former occasion, and a police officer,

by order of the civil authorities, determined that these intruders

should not force their way again into a private party given by the

Governor-General.

‘How shall I know the guests of his lordship?’ asked the anxious

constable.

‘Allow no one to enter who is not dressed in uniform or in evening

costume, like Mr. T----,’ replied the police officer, pointing to the

officiating collector, a tall, handsome man, dressed as an English

gentleman.

In the evening we were all assembled in the garden near the gate, where

a sound of voices in altercation was heard at the entrance. The police

officer proceeded to inquire into the disturbance, and found, to his

dismay and our delight, that Mr. A----, one of the leading swells in

Lord Mayo’s suite, had been stopped because he had a coat differing

very much from Mr. T----; in fact, a political costume.

The weather was so fine and warm that we decided on pitching our camp

not very far from our rickety bungalow. The site where our tents were

placed was on a green knoll, on whose flat surface our whole encampment

found ample room. There were trees dotted all round us, and a straight

path led down to the river, where we usually embarked.

For a day or two after our change of quarters the sun shone brightly,

and there was a balmy breeze blowing; but it came on to rain suddenly,

and never stopped doing so for thirty-six hours. Our tents were

thoroughly waterproof, but to say the best of it we found our space

rather confined, and the time hang somewhat heavily on our hands. My

wife was sitting in the verandah of our tent, and I was not far off

smoking a cigar. For some time I had observed the water round a tree

gradually rising, and in a lazy kind of manner kept watching it growing

deeper and deeper, and felt very pleased that we had pitched our camp

on the green knoll, and not in the grass field below us. All of a

sudden a native _employé_ of the Maharajah came running from the

landing-stage.

‘To the boats, sahib--to the boats! The Maharajah has sent three--the

river is rising.’

We could not understand what had happened, but to hear was to obey,

and then a wild scene of excitement ensued. Everyone began to pack

up something; the servants struck the camp; M’Kay was everywhere,

working hard. The only unconcerned man was an orderly sent by Baboo

Mohas Chander, who was placed at our disposal when we first arrived at

Srinagur. This valiant warrior divested himself of all his clothes,

and, wrapping them in a bundle, squatted in a way which is possible

only to natives, holding over his head an umbrella made of broad

leaves. He had fixed his position at the edge of the green platform on

which our tents were pitched. His apathy was very irritating to M’Kay,

and she managed, when flying from one place to another, to give our

sepoy a gentle push, and bundle, man, and umbrella rolled down the bank

into the water.

At length everything had been transported into the dongahs, which

resembled the craft in which we had travelled from Barramula, so the

same arrangements held good as those which we had adopted in our former

boats. Our horses had been moved at once up to high hills, and they

were in safety. To our repeated question, ‘What does all this mean?’

the answer was astounding. The river was rising from some unknown

reason, and the great danger was that the embankment, which prevented

the lake from overflowing its boundaries, might give way, and, if such

an accident happened, the whole valley would be inundated.

Yes, the river had already risen twenty feet, the green bank on which

our tents had been pitched was gradually becoming covered with water.

The path along which we had hurried was no longer visible. The flood

was entering our old, rickety bungalow, and the walls soon collapsed

like a building of cards. It was a strange and anxious position to

be placed in, for there was nobody to tell us what to do; our real

danger was unknown. My wife and M’Kay having made our big boat quite

comfortable, we trusted ourselves to the care of Providence, whose good

angels had watched over us in many an equally momentous adventure.

The afternoon passed and the river was still rising. The rain, however,

ceased, and evening became night. Our boats just floated on the waters.

The moon rose in its splendour, and the stillness of the hour was only

broken by the howling of homeless dogs, and that fearful sound--once

heard, never to be forgotten--a house crumbling to the ground. Then

all was quiet again, and we were left to imagine scenes of death and

dismay, which in time proved to be too true.

When morning broke, the sun shone forth on a scene of desolation. ‘The

waters covered the earth.’ There was no trace of gardens left. Many of

the visitors’ bungalows had subsided, and all of them had some depth of

water in the lower floors. Our boatmen poled us along through places

which, two days before, were dry land, and into gardens, over which a

mass of water was tearing. Our crew aided their progress by holding on

to cherry-trees, and freely helped themselves to the fruit, which a few

hours previous they would not have reached without the aid of a ladder.

We passed through the poplar avenue, one of the walks near the city,

the tall trees of which had been planted by the Sikhs many years ago.

Now a torrent rushed along the favourite ride. As we glided on, we saw

a poor Pariah dog seated on a door, floating anywhere, and howling

piteously. My wife was most anxious to save the forlorn animal, and

made the boatmen take us near to it. She spoke to it kindly, and coaxed

it to be good; but when its enemy, man, came nearer and nearer, it

distrusted us, and sprang from its door, and was swept away. As we

looked on the vast expanse of waters our wonder was great; but how

much was it increased when we both saw a rat and a serpent swimming

close together, too intent on getting to dry land to take any heed of

each other. As we continued on, we picked up a chicken, which was in

great dismay, but soon fraternised with us, and, being named Nourmahal,

became our companion for a long time after she had been saved.

It would be tedious to enumerate all our adventures. It was an

experience never to be forgotten. We spent several days in our

boats, but it was some time before the waters subsided, and the full

extent of the damage to life and property could be ascertained. The

peril most dreaded--the rising of the lake and the bursting of the

water-gate--when the town of Srinagur would have been, most probably,

swept away, and the whole valley destroyed, was mercifully averted.

A broad embankment is built for protection, and the water-gate is so

formed that, when the lake rises, the gate closes itself; but when at

its proper level the huge wooden doors open.

Our crew brought our squadron to anchor at the base of Tukht Suliman,

on whose sides our horses were picketed. We climbed to its summit to

the little temple where King Solomon once sat, so says tradition.

The view of the valley is the most extensive that can be had, and

from where we stood we saw the full length of the poplar avenue of

magnificent trees. There are in all one thousand seven hundred and

fourteen trees, of which one thousand six hundred and ninety-nine are

poplars, and fifteen chenars (so I find noted down).

The scene presented to us was most interesting. Very many dongahs, like

our own, had taken refuge here, out of which appeared mothers with

children in all states of undress. These poor ladies, like ourselves,

had been obliged to embark in a hurry, and found, no doubt, that a

nursery was an inconvenient obstacle to overcome. But, like true women,

they bowed to the inevitable, and made the best of everything.

We remained a few days near the friendly rocks, till the waters had

subsided. During that time the great Baboo Mohas Chander had often paid

us visits. He informed me that the cause of the flood was the melting

of a glacier in the mountains, which had forced its way in volumes of

water down to the river. I never heard this information contradicted,

so I suppose it was true.

CHAPTER XI.

VALLEY OF THE SCIND.

JOURNEY TO THE NISHAT BAGH--FLOATING GARDENS--SUPERFINE

JOE--ISLE OF CHENARS--INSCRIPTION--NIGHTINGALES--SUDDEN

STORM--SUNBUL--AN IRISHMAN’S DINNER--THE GUARDIAN OF THE

LAKE--GANDERBUL--NOONSER--ENGAGEMENT OF A SHIKARREE--AN IRISHMAN

LOSING HIS ‘PRESENCE OF MIND’--A HOLY MAN--CROSSING A RICKETY

BRIDGE--VALLEY OF THE SCIND--BEARS.

CHAPTER XI.

The weather had quite improved again, so we determined to proceed on

our travels once more, and, having still retained our flat-bottomed

gondolas, we gave orders to our new crew to take us through the

drogjun, or water-gate, into the lake, whose embankments had caused so

much alarm to the Maharajah and to everyone. How enchanting it all was!

We had left our moorings in the afternoon, and the glow of the fading

day was like a halo over mountain and woods.

Our destination was the Nishat Bagh, one of those fine old palaces

built by one of the Mogul emperors. On our way through the clear water

of the lake, we passed the floating gardens laden with melons. On every

side were lotus-flowers and singhara plants. The lake was like a great

mirror, in which the high mountains were reproduced. We landed at a

flight of steps, and, mounting them, found ourselves in the terraced

gardens among flowers and cherry-trees laden with fruit.

The Maharajah comes out occasionally from his gold-roofed dwelling

in Srinagur, and is taken up the lake in his grand barge, landing at

one or other of these summer habitations to spend the day. An order

from our Resident can generally secure the use of rooms in any of

the palaces for officers on leave. The rooms are bare; some of them

quite open to the balcony overhanging the garden. Here we established

ourselves for a time.

As we were idly gazing from the verandah, an arrival attracted our

notice. It was that of a native arrayed in garments of gorgeous

colours; but what was most remarkable was a large embroidery in

silver on his shoulder. For some time we were greatly puzzled by this

ornament; but, having got my glasses to bear on him, our delight was

great to find the word ‘Superfine’ written on it. This conspicuous

ornament was no doubt the English manufacturers’ mark of the quality

of the cloth in which this strange creature had clothed himself. We

hailed him as ‘Superfine Joe,’ at which he seemed greatly pleased, as

he salaamed repeatedly as he swaggered away. When night came on, our

resting-place was in an alcove not far from a marble fountain situated

in the centre of the fine hall. During the hours of darkness the breeze

moaned sadly through this vast apartment, sounding like the sighs of

those who had once lived and loved in this almost ruined palace.

When morning broke, we crossed the lake to Nishat Bagh, where we

pitched our tents under the shade of some magnificent chenars planted

in the time of Akbar. Before us was the calm and placid lake, the

breadth of which is here some miles. Near where we landed is the Char

Chenar, or Isle of Chenars, also called Rupa Lank, or Silver Island.

Vigne visited this isle in 1835, and says there was a square temple

upon it; but it no longer exists. He states a black marble tablet was

placed there which has also disappeared. He informs us that it bore the

following inscription:--

Three travellers,

Baron Carl Von Hugel from Jamu,

John Henderson from Ladâk,

Godfrey Thomas Vigne from Iskardo,

Who met in Sreennugger on November 18, 1835,

Have caused the names of those European

travellers who had previously viewed the Vale of Kashmir

to be hereunder engraved--

BERNIER, 1663,

FORSTER, 1786,

MOORCROFT, TREBECK, and GUTHRIE, 1823,

JACQUEMONT, 1831,

WOLFE, 1832.

Of these, three only lived to return to their native country.

Seated outside our tents, the whole scene was very beautiful. The

lake was dotted here and there in the far distance with boats plying

from one place to another. Then, rising in proud grandeur on the

opposite shore, the lofty mountains towered into the clear blue sky,

while at their feet nestled ancient palaces among green trees and

fruitful gardens. It was a scene of peaceful quiet, which is peculiar

to Cashmere, owing to the absence of all wheeled traffic. The lovely

climate of this beautiful land adds enchantment to every view.

‘Oh, to see it at sunset--when, warm o’er the lake,

Its splendour at parting a summer eve throws

Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take

A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes!’[5]

It is no less attractive when seen by moonlight.