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.