With the Connaught Rangers

by Edward Herbert Maxwell

I smoked a cigar, while my wife, by the aid of my glasses, examined every nook and corner of the high mountain which towered above us. All of a sudden she exclaimed, ‘I see a bear!’ and there, far up on the hill-path, a bear and her cub were plainly seen. It was a pretty picture, for the mother was playing with her child, rolling it over and running away, then coming back and falling down, while the little cub jumped over her. Well, I did not go after them. Perhaps the milk punch and the cheese prevented me; anyway, I left them alone, but a brother officer, arriving soon after, encamped not far from us, and he went and shot the cub and then the mother, but nearly lost his life in doing so, for the old bear was so furious when her cub was killed that she charged my friend at a moment when his rifle was not loaded. Fortunately for him, however, another sportsman came up to the rescue, and Bruin received a bullet which finished her.

There were several bears seen during our halt at this charming camping-ground. I went out several times to shoot, but was not successful. My shikarrie generally got me out of bed about three in the morning, and we sallied forth by the light of the moon, and climbed up one of those steep mountains on which my wife had spied the mother and child. The bears came down during the night from their haunts in the mountains to feed on the ripe mulberries in the valley.

My shikarrie’s plan was to take me up the mountain before dawn, and to post me behind a rock where the bears were likely to pass, as they always returned up the mountain from the valley when the day broke. I may safely say that, on these occasions, I never saw a bear. A strong smell of a menagerie was sometimes perceptible, and the broken branch of a mulberry-tree would give evidence that Bruin had been there; but I was never fortunate enough to get a shot at one. I think the fur of the American bears finer than that of the Cashmerian ones.

CHAPTER XII.
THE RESIDENT OF CASHMERE.

GOND—OFFICER OF THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS—A STATE PRISONER—OUR GASCON CAPTAIN—SILVER TAIL—M’KAY ON EASTERN MOUNTAIN SCENERY—THE WALLOOR LAKE—PALHALLAN—OUR CHOKEDAR—TAKEN FOR WANDERING JUGGLERS—VALE OF GULMURG—OUR CAMPING GROUND—A FAVOURITE EXCURSION—HOSPITALITY OF THE RESIDENT OF CASHMERE—POLLY THE PUG—CALLING THE MARES HOME—HINDOOS AND ANIMAL SUFFERING—EFFECTS OF CAMPAIGNING ON SERVANTS.

CHAPTER XII.

We left Mamur and encamped at Gond, intending to proceed to Sonamurg, but I did not feel at all well, so we had to give it up. The scenery had become wilder and grander at every turn round each rugged cliff, and then the mountains seemed to close entirely, so that there was apparently no possibility of getting further on, till a turn of the path led us to where the valley widened into a green enclosure. On our way we got lots of apricots, the trees being fairly weighed down with their yellow load.

Gond is a very wild place. Our tents were pitched close to a brawling stream that clamoured so loudly as it hurried past to join the Scind that we could hardly hear ourselves speak. My wife, accompanied by the dogs, proceeded alone for about five miles up the valley. She brought back a glowing account of glorious combinations of mountain, wood, and river. The intense stillness of the place imparted a feeling of solemnity to the scene. While my wife was on her way a figure appeared, at first wholly unrecognisable, face burned red, and hair a perfect thatch, dress indescribable. This was an officer of the Connaught Rangers. How amazed I was when my wife returned to our camp with this singular-looking being. He had been to Leh, and was full of stories of his adventures. He had walked thirty miles that day. As he had left his servants behind, we made an impromptu bed for him in our spare tent. He told us he had seen a state prisoner at a fort called Tillet, a man tall in height, cramped up in an iron cage where he could not sit upright. My friend measured this cruel prison, and, as far as I remember, his conclusion was that it was only four feet high, and narrow in proportion. The poor man had been immured there for years. At the time of the death of Gholab Sing (the father of the present Maharajah) the prisoner plotted to raise another branch of the family to the throne, his intention being that the prince who now reigns was to have been slain. The plot was discovered, and the unhappy author of it was condemned to a life-long incarceration in an iron cage. It is so long ago since the story was told on the valley of the Scind river by this wandering Ranger, that now my written description of the event seems quite tame; but at the time his portrait of the unfortunate wretch he had seen, and the measurement of the cage which he had marked on his stick, made us all thrill with horror, and we made a fresh inroad on the fluids in my wife’s stores. I hope my friend had no difficulty in getting off his boots, as I might have chaffed him as I was once chaffed myself.

In the Crimea, during the last winter there, my old friend and comrade, Nat Steevens, and I built, with the aid of one of the Rangers, named Hopkins, a very good man, ‘a moighty foin house,’ consisting of two rooms, divided by a very thin partition. Nat resided in one room, while I was possessor of the other. Nat said to me one morning:

‘I always can tell when you have been dining out.’