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.
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, andextraordinary 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 offcharmingly. 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. Certainlyhis 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 regimentswere 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 bishophad 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 himselffrom 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 praiseworthyerrand, I gave him hiscongê, 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, atmy 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 andimpedimentapreceded us bya 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, withthe 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. Theblack 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. Quitedark 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 purpleheather. 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, whonever 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 bungalownear 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.