With the Connaught Rangers

by Edward Herbert Maxwell

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.