With the Connaught Rangers

by Edward Herbert Maxwell

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.