With the Connaught Rangers

by Edward Herbert Maxwell

‘How shall I know the guests of his lordship?’ asked the anxious constable.

‘Allow no one to enter who is not dressed in uniform or in evening costume, like Mr. T——,’ replied the police officer, pointing to the officiating collector, a tall, handsome man, dressed as an English gentleman.

In the evening we were all assembled in the garden near the gate, where a sound of voices in altercation was heard at the entrance. The police officer proceeded to inquire into the disturbance, and found, to his dismay and our delight, that Mr. A——, one of the leading swells in Lord Mayo’s suite, had been stopped because he had a coat differing very much from Mr. T——; in fact, a political costume.

The weather was so fine and warm that we decided on pitching our camp not very far from our rickety bungalow. The site where our tents were placed was on a green knoll, on whose flat surface our whole encampment found ample room. There were trees dotted all round us, and a straight path led down to the river, where we usually embarked.

For a day or two after our change of quarters the sun shone brightly, and there was a balmy breeze blowing; but it came on to rain suddenly, and never stopped doing so for thirty-six hours. Our tents were thoroughly waterproof, but to say the best of it we found our space rather confined, and the time hang somewhat heavily on our hands. My wife was sitting in the verandah of our tent, and I was not far off smoking a cigar. For some time I had observed the water round a tree gradually rising, and in a lazy kind of manner kept watching it growing deeper and deeper, and felt very pleased that we had pitched our camp on the green knoll, and not in the grass field below us. All of a sudden a native employé of the Maharajah came running from the landing-stage.

‘To the boats, sahib—to the boats! The Maharajah has sent three—the river is rising.’

We could not understand what had happened, but to hear was to obey, and then a wild scene of excitement ensued. Everyone began to pack up something; the servants struck the camp; M’Kay was everywhere, working hard. The only unconcerned man was an orderly sent by Baboo Mohas Chander, who was placed at our disposal when we first arrived at Srinagur. This valiant warrior divested himself of all his clothes, and, wrapping them in a bundle, squatted in a way which is possible only to natives, holding over his head an umbrella made of broad leaves. He had fixed his position at the edge of the green platform on which our tents were pitched. His apathy was very irritating to M’Kay, and she managed, when flying from one place to another, to give our sepoy a gentle push, and bundle, man, and umbrella rolled down the bank into the water.

At length everything had been transported into the dongahs, which resembled the craft in which we had travelled from Barramula, so the same arrangements held good as those which we had adopted in our former boats. Our horses had been moved at once up to high hills, and they were in safety. To our repeated question, ‘What does all this mean?’ the answer was astounding. The river was rising from some unknown reason, and the great danger was that the embankment, which prevented the lake from overflowing its boundaries, might give way, and, if such an accident happened, the whole valley would be inundated.

Yes, the river had already risen twenty feet, the green bank on which our tents had been pitched was gradually becoming covered with water. The path along which we had hurried was no longer visible. The flood was entering our old, rickety bungalow, and the walls soon collapsed like a building of cards. It was a strange and anxious position to be placed in, for there was nobody to tell us what to do; our real danger was unknown. My wife and M’Kay having made our big boat quite comfortable, we trusted ourselves to the care of Providence, whose good angels had watched over us in many an equally momentous adventure.

The afternoon passed and the river was still rising. The rain, however, ceased, and evening became night. Our boats just floated on the waters. The moon rose in its splendour, and the stillness of the hour was only broken by the howling of homeless dogs, and that fearful sound—once heard, never to be forgotten—a house crumbling to the ground. Then all was quiet again, and we were left to imagine scenes of death and dismay, which in time proved to be too true.