1854-1856
A trip to Khagan--The Vale of Kashmir--With the Horse Artillery
--My first visit to Simla--Life at Peshawar--A staff appointment
--The bump of locality
I had had a great deal of fever during my eighteen months' residence
at Peshawar, and in April, 1854, I obtained six months' leave to
Kashmir. I travelled _viâ_ Murree to Abbottabad, along the route now
well known as the 'Gullies.' Here I was joined by Lieutenant George
Rodney Brown,[1] a subaltern of Horse Artillery, with whom I chummed
at Peshawar.
Abbottabad was a very small place in those days. It was named after
its first Deputy-Commissioner, James Abbott,[2] famous for his journey
_viâ_ Bokhara and Khiva to Russia in 1839, undertaken for the release
of Russian prisoners who were kept as slaves by the Turkomans. He had
just left, and had been succeeded as Deputy-Commissioner by a Captain
Becher, who, fortunately for us, was away in the district. I say
fortunately, because we were bent on visiting Khagan, and had obtained
permission from the Commissioner of Peshawar to do so. He had told
us to apply to Becher for assistance, but from what we heard of that
officer, it did not seem likely he would help us. Khagan was beyond
our border, and the inhabitants were said to be even more fanatical
than the rest of the frontier tribes. The Commissioner, however, had
given us leave, and as his Deputy appeared to be the kind of man
to create obstacles, we made up our minds to slip away before he
returned.
We started on the 21st May, and marched to Habibula-Ki-Ghari. Here the
road bifurcates, one branch leading to Kashmir, the other to Khagan.
We took the latter, and proceeded to Balakot, twelve miles further
on, which was then our frontier post. There we found a small guard of
Frontier Police, two of whom we induced to accompany us on our onward
journey for the purpose of assisting to look after the baggage and
collecting coolies. Three days' more marching brought us to Khagan.
The road almost the whole way from Balakot ran along a precipice
overhanging the Nainsukh river, at that time of year a rushing
torrent, owing to the melting of the snows on the higher ranges. The
track was rough, steep, and in some places very narrow. We crossed and
recrossed the river several times by means of snow-bridges, which,
spanning the limpid, jade-coloured water, had a very pretty effect. At
one point our _shikarris_[3] stopped, and proudly told us that on that
very spot their tribe had destroyed a Sikh army sent against them in
the time of Runjit Sing. It certainly was a place well chosen for a
stand, not more than fifty yards wide, with a perpendicular cliff on
one side and a roaring torrent on the other.
The people apparently did not object to our being in their country,
and treated us with much civility throughout our journey. We were
enjoying ourselves immensely, so when an official cover reached us
with the signature of the dreaded Deputy-Commissioner in the corner,
we agreed that it would be unwise to open it just then.
Khagan was almost buried in snow. The scenery was magnificent, and
became every moment more wonderful as we slowly climbed the steep
ascent in front of us; range after range of snow-capped mountains
disclosed themselves to our view, rising higher and higher into the
air, until at last, towering above all, Nanga Parbat[4] in all her
spotless beauty was revealed to our astonished and delighted gaze.
We could not get beyond Khagan. Our coolies refused to go further,
alleging as their reason the danger to be dreaded from avalanches
in that month; but I suspect that fear of hostility from the tribes
further north had more to do with their reluctance to proceed than
dread of falling avalanches. We remained at Khagan for two or
three days in the hope of being able to shoot an ibex, but we were
disappointed; we never even saw one.
We retraced our steps with considerable regret, and reached
Habibula-Ki-Ghari on the 31st May. Here we received a second official
document from Abbottabad. It contained, like the previous letter,
which we now looked at for the first time, orders for our immediate
return, and warnings that we were on no account to go to Khagan. Since
then Khagan has been more than once visited by British officers, and
now a road is in course of construction along the route we travelled,
as being a more direct line of communication with Gilghit than that
_viâ_ Kashmir.
We made no delay at Habibula-Ki-Ghari, but started at once for the
lovely Vale of Kashmir, where we spent the summer, amusing ourselves
by making excursions to all the places of interest and beauty we had
so often heard of, and occasionally shooting a bear. The place which
impressed me most was Martund,[5] where stand the picturesque ruins of
a once renowned Hindu temple. These noble ruins are the most striking
in size and position of all the existing remains of the past glories
of Kashmir.
From Martund we made our way to Vernag, the celebrated spring which
is supposed to be the source of the Jhelum river. The Moghul Emperor
Akbar built there a summer palace, and the arches, on which it is
said rested the private apartments of the lovely Nur Jehan, are still
visible.
We wandered over the beautiful and fertile Lolab valley, and pitched
our little camp in the midst of groves of chunar, walnut, apple,
cherry, and peach trees; and we marched up the Sind valley, and
crossed the Zojji La Pass leading into Thibet. The scenery all along
this route is extremely grand. On either side are lofty mountains,
their peaks wrapped in snow, their sides clothed with pine, and their
feet covered with forests, in which is to be found almost every kind
of deciduous tree. From time to time we returned for a few days to
Srinagar, the capital of Kashmir, to enjoy the pleasures of more
civilized society. Srinagar is so well known nowadays, and has been
so often described in poetry and prose, that it is needless for me to
dwell at length upon its delights, which, I am inclined to think, are
greater in imagination than in reality. It has been called the Venice
of the East, and in some respects it certainly does remind one of the
'Bride of the Sea,' both in its picturesqueness and (when one gets
into the small and tortuous canals) its unsavouriness. Even at the
time of which I am writing it was dilapidated, and the houses looked
exactly like those made by children out of a pack of cards, which a
puff of wind might be expected to destroy. Of late years the greater
part of the city has been injured by earthquakes, and Srinagar looks
more than ever like a card city. The great beauty of the place in
those days was the wooden bridges covered with creepers, and gay with
booths and shops of all descriptions, which spanned the Jhelum at
intervals for the three miles the river runs through the town--now,
alas! for the artistic traveller, no more. Booths and shops have been
swept away, and the creepers have disappeared--decidedly an advantage
from a sanitary point of view, but destructive of the quaint
picturesqueness of the town.
The floating gardens are a unique and very pretty characteristic of
Srinagar. The lake is nowhere deeper than ten or twelve feet, and in
some places much less. These gardens are made by driving stakes into
the bed of the lake, long enough to project three or four feet above
the surface of the water. These stakes are placed at intervals in an
oblong form, and are bound together by reeds and rushes twined in and
out and across, until a kind of stationary raft is made, on which
earth and turf are piled. In this soil seeds are sown, and the crops
of melons and other fruits raised in these fertile beds are extremely
fine and abundant.
The magnificent chunar-trees are another very beautiful feature of the
country. They grow to a great height and girth, and so luxuriant and
dense is their foliage that I have sat reading and writing for hours
during heavy rain under one of these trees and kept perfectly dry.
The immediate vicinity of Srinagar is very pretty, and the whole
valley of Kashmir is lovely beyond description: surrounded by
beautifully-wooded mountains, intersected with streams and lakes, and
gay with flowers of every description, for in Kashmir many of the
gorgeous eastern plants and the more simple but sweeter ones of
England meet on common ground. To it may appropriately be applied the
Persian couplet:
'Agar fardos baru-i zamin ast, hamin ast, hamin ast'
(If there be an Elysium on earth, it is this, it is this).
The soil is extremely productive; anything will grow in it. Put a
stick into the ground, and in an extraordinary short space of time it
becomes a tree and bears fruit. What were we about, to sell such a
country for three quarters of a million sterling? It would have made
the most perfect sanatorium for our troops, and furnished an admirable
field for British enterprise and colonization, its climate being as
near perfection as anything can be.
How sad it is that, in a country 'where every prospect pleases,
only man' should be 'vile'! And man, as he existed in Kashmir, was
vile--vile, because so miserable. The Mahomedan inhabitants were being
ground down by Hindu rulers, who seized all their earnings, leaving
them barely sufficient to keep body and soul together. What interest
could such people have in cultivating their land, or doing any work
beyond what was necessary to mere existence? However hard they might
labour, their efforts would benefit neither themselves nor their
children, and so their only thought was to get through life with
as little exertion as possible--in the summer sitting in the sun
absolutely idle the greater part of the day, and in the winter wrapped
up in their blankets, under which were concealed curious little
vessels called _kangris_, holding two or three bits of live charcoal.
Every Kashmiri still carries one of these _kangris_, as the most
economical way of keeping himself warm.
Early in September we said good-bye to the happy valley and returned
to Peshawar, where I rejoined the Mountain Battery.
In November, to my great delight, I was given my jacket. At first my
happiness was somewhat damped by the fact that the troop to which I
was posted was stationed at Umballa. I did not want to leave Peshawar,
and in the end I had not to do so, as a vacancy most opportunely
occurred in one of the troops of Horse Artillery at that station,
which was given to me.
Life on the frontier in those days had a great charm for most young
men; there was always something of interest going on; military
expeditions were constantly taking place, or being speculated upon,
and one lived in hope of being amongst those chosen for active
service. Peshawar, too, notwithstanding its unhealthiness, was a
favourite station with officers. To me it was particularly pleasant,
for it had the largest force of Artillery of any station in India
except Meerut; the mess was a good one, and was composed of as nice
a set of fellows as were to be found in the army. In addition to the
officers of the regiment, there were a certain number of honorary
members; all the staff and civilians belonged to the Artillery mess,
and on guest-nights we sat down as many as sixty to dinner. Another
attraction was the 'coffee shop,' an institution which has now almost
ceased to exist, at which we all congregated after morning parade and
freely discussed the home and local news.
The troop to which I was posted was composed of a magnificent body of
men, nearly all Irishmen, most of whom could have lifted me up
with one hand. They were fine riders, and needed to be so, for the
stud-horses used for Artillery purposes at that time were not the
quiet, well-broken animals of the present day. I used to try my
hand at riding them all in turn, and thus learnt to understand and
appreciate the amount of nerve, patience, and skill necessary to
the making of a good Horse Artillery 'driver,' with the additional
advantage that I was brought into constant contact with the men. It
also qualified me to ride in the officers' team for the regimental
brake. The brake, it must be understood, was drawn by six horses, each
ridden postilion fashion by an officer.
My troop was commanded by Captain Barr, a dear old fellow who had seen
a good deal of service and was much liked by officers and men, but
hardly the figure for a Horse Artilleryman, as he weighed about
seventeen stone. On a troop parade Barr took up his position well
in advance and made his own pace, but on brigade parades he had to
conform to the movements of the other arms, and on these occasions he
used to tell one of the subalterns as he galloped past him to come
'left about' at the right time without waiting for his order. This, of
course, we were always careful to do, and by the time we had come into
action Barr had caught us up and was at his post.
During the winter of 1854-55 I had several returns of Peshawar fever,
and by the beginning of the spring I was so reduced that I was given
eight months' leave on medical certificate, with orders to report
myself at Mian Mir at its expiration, in view to my going through the
riding course, there being no Riding-Master at Peshawar.
I decided to return to Kashmir in the first instance, and thence to
march across the Himalayas to Simla.
On my way into Kashmir I was fortunate enough to fall in with a very
agreeable travelling companion--Lieutenant John Watson.[6] He was then
Adjutant of the 1st Punjab Cavalry, and was looked upon as one of
the most promising officers of the Frontier Force. We spent a very
enjoyable time in Kashmir, and early in August I started for Simla
with two brother officers named Light and Mercer, whose acquaintance
I had only recently made, but who turned out to be very pleasant
fellow-travellers.
We marched _viâ_ Kishtwar, Chamba, and Dharmsala, a distance of about
400 miles, through most beautiful scenery. At the last-named place I
parted from my companions, who travelled onwards to Simla by the Kulu
valley, while I took the shorter route _viâ_ Bilaspur.
The Simla of those days was not the busy and important place it
has since become. The Governor-General seldom visited it, and the
Commander-in-Chief only spent a summer there occasionally. When I
arrived, Sir William Gomm, the Commander-in-Chief of that day, who had
been spending the hot weather months there, was about to give up his
command, and Colonel Grant,[7] who had been his Adjutant-General, had
left not long before.
The only thing of interest to myself which occurred during the month I
remained at Simla was that I lunched with Colonel Arthur Becher, the
Quartermaster-General. I think I hear my reader say, 'Not a very
remarkable event to chronicle.' But that lunch was a memorable one to
me; indeed, it was the turning-point in my career, for my host was
good enough to say he should like to have me in his department some
day, and this meant a great deal to me. Joining a department at that
time generally resulted in remaining in it for the greater part
of one's service. There was then no limit to the tenure of staff
appointments, and the object of every ambitious young officer was to
get into one department or another--political, civil, or the army
staff. My father had always impressed upon me that the political
department was _the_ one to aspire to, and failing that, the
Quartermaster-General's, as in the latter there was the best chance of
seeing service. I had cherished a sort of vague hope that I might some
day be lucky enough to become a Deputy Assistant-Quartermaster-General,
for although I fully recognized the advantages of a political career,
I preferred being more closely associated with the army, and I had seen
enough of staff work to satisfy myself that it would suit me; so the
few words spoken to me by Colonel Becher made me supremely happy.
It never entered into my head that I should get an early appointment;
the fact of the Quartermaster-General thinking of me as a possible
recruit was quite enough for me. I was in no hurry to leave the Horse
Artillery, to which I was proud of belonging, and in which I hoped to
see service while still on the frontier. I left Simla very pleased
with the result of my visit, and very grateful to Colonel Becher, who
proved a good friend to me ever after, and I made my way to Mian Mir,
where I went through the riding-school course, and then returned to
Peshawar.
(1856) The winter of 1855-56 passed much as the cold weather generally
does in the north of India. Our amusements consisted of an occasional
race-meeting or cricket match. Polo was unknown in those days, and
hunting the jackal, a sport which has been a source of so much
recreation to the Peshawar garrison for thirty odd years, had not then
been thought of. It was a pleasant change to visit the outposts, and
whenever I got the chance I rode over to Mardan, where the Corps
of Guides were stationed, commanded by that gallant soldier, Harry
Lumsden,[8] who had raised the corps in 1846 under the auspices of
Henry Lawrence. Many were the good gallops I enjoyed with his hawks,
hunting the _aubara_.[9] Of work there was plenty at Peshawar, for the
Brigadier, Sydney Cotton,[10] kept us alive with field days, carefully
instilling into us his idea that parade-grounds were simply useful for
drill and preliminary instruction, and that as soon as the rudiments
of a soldier's education had been learnt, the troops should leave
their nursery, and try as far as possible to practise in peace what
they would have to do in war. Sydney Cotton was never tired of
explaining that the machinery of war, like all other machinery, should
be kept, so to speak, oiled and ready for use.
My dream of a staff appointment was realized more quickly than I had
expected. In the early part of 1856 the Surveyor-General applied for
the services of two or three experienced officers to assist in the
survey of Kashmir. Lumsden, the D.A.Q.M.G., was one of those selected
for the duty, and I was appointed to officiate for him. So delighted
was I to get my foot on the lowest rung of the staff ladder, that I
cheerfully agreed to the condition my Captain insisted upon, that I
should perform my regimental duties in addition to the staff work.
Things went merrily with me for a short time, when most unexpectedly
my hopes of some day becoming Quartermaster-General of the Army in
India were dashed to the ground by the Governor-General refusing
to confirm my appointment, because I had not passed the prescribed
examination in Hindustani. A rule existed requiring a language test,
but it had seldom been enforced, certainly not in the case of 'acting
appointments,' so that this refusal came as a great blow to me. It
had, however, excellent results, for it made me determined to pass in
Hindustani. It was then May, and in July the half-yearly examination
was to be held. I forthwith engaged the best _munshi_[11] at Peshawar,
shut myself up, and studied Indian literature from morning till night,
until I felt pretty confident of success.
Just before the examination took place, the officer who had stepped
into my shoes when I was turned out (Lieutenant Mordaunt Fitz-Gerald,
of my own regiment) was offered an appointment in the Punjab Frontier
Force. He consulted me as to the advisability of accepting it, and
I told him I thought he ought not to do so. I considered this most
disinterested advice, for I had good reason to believe that I should
be re-appointed to the staff, should the appointment again become
vacant. Fortunately for me, Fitz-Gerald followed the usual procedure
of those who delight in consulting their friends. He listened to my
advice, and then decided not to follow it. Accordingly, he joined the
Punjab Frontier Force, whilst I, having passed the examination, went
back to the coveted appointment, and continued in the department, with
the exception of one or two short intervals, until 1878, when I left
it as Quartermaster-General.
The autumn of 1856 was a very sickly one at Peshawar; fever was rife
amongst the troops, and in the hope of shaking it off Brigadier Cotton
got permission to take a certain number into camp. It was September,
and the sun was still very hot, so that it was necessary to begin the
daily march long before dawn in order to reach the new camping ground
while it was still tolerably cool. We crossed the Kabul river at
Nowshera, which place was then being made into a station for troops,
and marched about the Yusafzai plain for three weeks. The chief
difficulty was the absence of water, and I had to prospect the country
every afternoon for a sufficient supply, and to determine, with regard
to this _sine quâ non_, where the camp should be pitched the next day.
On one occasion the best place I could discover was between two and
three miles off the main road. There was no difficulty in reaching it
by day, but I was afraid of some mistake being made when we had to
leave it in the small hours of the morning, few things being more
bewildering than to find one's way in the dark from a camp pitched in
the open country when once the tents have been struck. It was my duty
to lead the column and see that it marched off in the right direction;
knowing how anxious the Brigadier was that the new ground should be
reached while it was cool, and the men be thus saved from exposure to
the sun, I was careful to note my position with regard to the stars,
and to explain to the officer who was in orders to command the advance
guard the direction he must take. When the time came to start, and the
Brigadier was about to order the bugler to sound the march, I saw that
the advance guard was drawn up at right angles to the way in which we
had to proceed. The officer commanding it was positive he was right,
and in this he was supported by Brigadier Cotton and some of the other
officers; I was equally positive that he was wrong, and that if we
marched as he proposed, we should find ourselves several miles out
of our course. The Brigadier settled the question by saying I was
responsible for the troops going in the right direction, and ordering
me to show the way. The country was perfectly bare, there was not
a tree or object of any kind to guide me, and the distance seemed
interminable. I heard opinions freely expressed that I was on the
wrong road, and at last, when the Brigadier himself came up to me and
said he thought I must have lost the way, I really began to waver in
my conviction that I was right. At that moment my horse stumbled into
a ditch, which proved to be the boundary of the main road. I was
immensely relieved, the Brigadier was delighted, and from that moment
I think he was satisfied that I had, what is so essential to a
Quartermaster-General in the field, the bump of locality.
In October the Artillery moved into the practice camp at Chamkanie,
about five miles from Peshawar. It was intended that we should remain
there for a couple of months, but before the end of that time I had
to join the General at Rawal Pindi, where he had gone on a tour of
inspection. Being anxious not to shirk my regimental duty, I did not
leave Chamkanie until the last moment, and had but one day in which
to reach Rawal Pindi, a distance of one hundred miles, which I
accomplished on horseback between 7 a.m. and 6 p.m., only stopping at
Attock a short time for refreshment.
This tour with General Reed ended my staff duties for a time, as
the survey in Kashmir had come to an end and Lumsden rejoined his
appointment before Christmas.
[Footnote 1: Now a retired Major-General.]
[Footnote 2: Now General Sir James Abbott, K.C.B.]
[Footnote 3: Men who carry the guns, and point out the most likely
places for game, etc.]
[Footnote 4: 26,000 feet above the sea-level.]
[Footnote 5: Three miles east of Islamabad.]
[Footnote 6: Now General Sir John Watson, V.C., K.C.B.]
[Footnote 7: The late Field-Marshal Sir Patrick Grant, G.C.B.,
G.C.S.I.]
[Footnote 8: The late General Sir Harry Lumsden, K.C.S.I., C.B.]
[Footnote 9: Bastard florican.]
[Footnote 10: This officer arrived in India as a Cornet in the 24th
Light Dragoons in the year 1810, and although, when he reached
Peshawar with his regiment--the 22nd Foot--in 1853, he had been
forty-three years in the army, and was sixty-one years of age, he had
not even succeeded to the command of a battalion. He was an officer
of unusual energy and activity, a fine rider, a pattern drill, and a
thorough soldier all round. He was not fortunate enough to see much
active service, but it must have been a source of consolation to him
to feel, when ending his days as Governor of the Royal Hospital at
Chelsea, that it was in a great measure owing to his foresight and
decision that there was no serious disturbance at Peshawar during the
eventful summer of 1857.]
[Footnote 11: Instructor in Oriental languages.]
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