With the Connaught Rangers

by Edward Herbert Maxwell

The old tickedar was very civil, and brought us to his house, where his wife and daughters came and gazed with smiling faces at my wife. After a great deal of good-will dumb-show, which reminded me of the ‘Bono Johnny’ of old Crimean days, we left the delighted family open-mouthed with admiration.

The environs of Islamabad are very pretty. There are pleasant rides through gardens near the river, and a long avenue of poplar-trees extends for more than a mile through green pastures.

Next day we determined to visit Atchibul, where there is a beautiful pleasure-garden, laid out by the Emperor Shah-Jehan, and we were told there was a summer-house in the centre of the grounds, where we could rest. The charm of our gipsy life was that we were enabled to start whenever we pleased. My wife and M’Kay made all arrangements for a picnic, and the amiable tickedar provided coolies on the shortest notice to carry our food. As our expedition was only to last one day, the tents were not struck. When M’Kay brought the tea at an early hour, we anxiously asked how the weather was looking, and felt proportionably delighted when we were informed that it was very fine. Clouds had been gathering the day before, and rain appeared imminent. We mounted our horses, and sallied forth. M’Kay accompanied us on foot, all our dogs, plus two puppies, came also. Our way lay through the rather dirty town, and we were very pleased when we emerged from narrow lanes to green orchards in the open country.

After crossing the river, we followed the right bank along which the road continued. Then our path lay through rice-fields, very treacherous to ride over. Our horses constantly sank in the boggy ground. In front of us were mountains, whose summits were covered with dark clouds when we started, but, as the day went on, rain and fleecy mist succeeded the lowering curtain, and, as if by magic, the mists faded away, and left the clear outline of the green hills painted on the autumn sky. As we advanced on Atchibul, a hill clothed with young deodars rose grandly before us, and, as we approached the gate of the gardens, we passed under magnificent chenars. The entrance is rather formal, but the Pavilion, situated in the centre of a tank of clear water, is very charming.

A civil old fellow bade us welcome in the name of the Maharajah, and, after bringing us some fine peaches, left us to ourselves. In a short time the jets d’eau which surrounded us began to play, and continued doing so all the time we were there. The day was warm, as the sun had conquered the clouds, and the splashing music of the waters was soothing and thoroughly Eastern. The old gardener brought us grapes, peaches, and plums, so we passed a few hours very happily, having brought a supply of books. The fruit which is to be got in India is not equal to what we have cultivated at home in hot-houses. There are, of course, certain fruits peculiar to the country, such as mangoes, bananas, and oranges, which we cannot surpass, but as a cart-horse may be a very fine animal, yet in refinement cannot be compared with a thorough-bred, neither can the natural produce of the soil be compared with the highly-cultivated results of skill. In Cashmere there is an abundance of the fruits of the earth when they are in season. No high walls and locked doors are required to keep out thieves, or to prevent visitors from wandering about among the extensive garden-paths.

But at home it is different. A friend of mine in the south of Ireland was taking some ladies to see his very fine hot-houses. When they reached the garden, the door was found to be locked, and the key was there, but in the inside. Great perplexity was felt on the part of the Irish host how to get in. He shouted to the gardener, and a voice answered, but not much to the purpose. There was much excitement and confabulation as to how the party outside the walls was to be admitted. Finally a happy thought struck the master. ‘Whisper, Pat!’ he shouted, ‘throw the key over the wall, and we shall let ourselves in.’ So, with many a ‘Stand clear—are ye ready?’ whiz the key came over the wall, and, with considerable triumph, our friend said, ‘Now we’ll get in!’ It had never occurred to any of them that the easiest way would have been to unlock the door on the inside.

Several notabilities of Islamabad came to pay their salaams, among them a Sikh officer from Peshawur, who went into ecstasies about the place, and concluded by saying, ‘Oh, if the English were possessors of this land, what a paradise it would be!’ The hill which rises in the background is covered with young deodars, which the Maharajah preserves most strictly, and which add very much to the quiet beauty of the scene. In the time of the Emperor Shah-Jehan, when this pleasure-garden was trimly kept, when the cascades were full of water, and everything was cared for, this place must have been unsurpassed in loveliness. The spring of water in this rare old garden is considered the finest in Cashmere, and the water sparkles in its clear purity when poured into a glass.

Atchibul only requires careful looking after, for the ground is fertile; peaches, quince, plums, and grapes grow in abundance in its orchards. The day was far spent as we rode away, and as we passed through the curious gate which divides Shah-Jehan’s garden from the outward world we both exclaimed, ‘How often shall we look back with pleasure on our day at Atchibul!’ Our path homewards was the same by which we came in the morning. The shades of night had closed round us before we reached the camp.

Our next picnic was to the wonderful ruins of Martund. M’Kay was left in charge of the camp, and we started in the morning towards the village of Bowun, which is about six miles from our ground, on the northern side of what is called in Cashmere a kuraywah, or table-land. These kuraywahs vary in height from three to four hundred feet, and in length from one to five miles. They are divided from each other by wide ravines, through which flow mountain streams. The upper part, which is generally bare and flat, is composed of very rich soil. The scenery is not very grand, and the path skirts along the foot of the kuraywah, on which the temple of Martund is built.

In due time we arrived at the sacred spring of Bowun, whose holy waters are received in a large tank full of tame fish. On the one side of this tank is a temple, from which emerged a very holy man, in search of backsheesh. We did not respond to his appeals, but a stout khansama belonging to an English family in Cashmere, seemed a great find; for he had to pay for everything. First he was mulcted of his coin to provide food for the fish, then he had to pay before he was allowed to kneel down to try to embrace a fish, which, as he was stout and rather old, I need not say he did not succeed in doing. I then saw him paying for admittance into the temple, to be blessed by the holy man. The last I saw of him was when he was surrounded by little boys shouting for backsheesh. The limp state of his money-bag, however, showed that he had no more to give.