With the Connaught Rangers

by Edward Herbert Maxwell

Yet why should we laugh at this poor Hindoo. It was faith that carried him on, faith as powerful as that which inspires the pilgrims of Russia to leave their homes, and crowd the Church of the Sepulchre at Jerusalem, and the same faith as that which caused the martyrs of old to smile as the fire was lit to consume their bodies. Magnificent old chenars are near the sacred spring.

There were so many faqueers here that we determined not to halt, as these gentlemen are not particular about wearing any clothes, and despise soap and water. We declined all offers of a guide, for our ancient tickedar had provided us with a coolie who knew the road. So we turned our backs on Bowun, fully convinced that Nature was most bountiful to this beautiful land, but that man ruined it by extortion and folly.

We proceeded by a very steep path to the top of the kuraywah, on which are the ruins of Martund. The view was fine. In the far distance we saw the woods of Atchibul on one side, and in front the green entrance to Kunbul. Martund is a wonderful place. Vigne says in his ‘Travels in Cashmere,’ ‘As an isolated ruin, this deserves, on account of its solitary and massive grandeur, to be ranked, not only as the first ruin of the kind in Cashmere, but as one of the noblest among the architectural relics of antiquity that are to be seen in any country.’ And what did we see? We went out on a calm summer evening on a rocky coast, where Nature had cast about in endless confusion great rocks of ponderous size; that is what we seemed to see, but these massive blocks of stone and masonry, tumbled about in magnificent disorder, once on a time formed walls surrounding the temple. The temple still stands, in spite of the loss of its surroundings, which have succumbed to the gales and storms of ages. It rears its noble front in proud grandeur and disdain of overwhelming and destructive time. We entered this ancient edifice through a gateway. It seemed to us to be built on a cruciform plan. The aisle was there, and, towards the east, the altar recess, while at each corner the cross was completed by projecting spaces like chapels. On the walls of stone were strange figures cut, but the roof in most parts had failed, and the blue sky formed the canopy overhead.

There was something pathetic in finding ourselves alone in this monument of by-gone days. Those who once worshipped in this very grand building must have been some of the great ones of the world, and now their very existence is unknown. The knowledge of who they were is but dimly seen through the ages of the past. Were it not for these grand mementoes which outlived the memory of those who worshipped in them, who now would think of them?

We prepared to pass the hot hours of the day in this sacred retreat, delighted to be left alone to our thoughts, which must, under the circumstances, be somewhat solemn. Our hopes of solitude were doomed to disappointment, for, entering the portals of the temple, a salaaming figure advanced, and, having arrived at a respectful distance, squatted down on the ground before us. He was a young, well-dressed Pundit, and, as we were actually reposing in a Hindoo temple, we received him courteously, though, like many callers, his absence would have been preferable to his presence. He observed that the ruins were very large, to which undoubted fact we, of course, agreed. He produced a long roll of parchment signed by many names, and pointed with pride to the signature of Vigne. This roll had belonged to his father. He then brought out several ‘chits’ or characters, and requested me to give him one. Being rather puzzled what to write, I looked over the numerous sheets of note-paper, one of which particularly attracted my attention. ‘This is to certify that Pundit—is the greatest bore and nuisance I ever met. Signed ——.’ They were all to the same effect. Having never met this worthy man before in my life, and being most anxious to get rid of him, I wrote, ‘This to certify that Pundit—is the son of his own father,’ and signed it. He received this certificate with great pleasure; but, as he did not understand a word of English, I cannot make out what good he could possibly derive from it. I bowed him out, as is the custom in the East, and sincerely hoped we had seen the last of him.

We passed a very quiet day, and when the sun began to sink to rest we prepared to leave this grand old monument of ancient Cashmere. We sallied forth from the venerable ruin, and who should be there but the Pundit? He said a good deal, but all I could make out was backsheesh. So we gave him a small silver coin, and he asked for more, ‘as his day was spoilt.’ The quiet and the calm of the time-worn temple was forgotten, and with wrath we turned away from this extortionate beggar, and, with ruffled tempers, began our return march to Islamabad. Instead of retracing our steps to Bowun, we continued along the kuraywah on which Martund is built. After riding for two or three miles, we descended a steep path and entered again the road on which we had been in the morning.

As the evening was very close, we dismounted, and, seating ourselves under the shade of a wide-spreading tree, we made our syces take the horses to a clear, running stream close to our resting-place, and our thirsty nags enjoyed a cool drink. As there was no water to be had at the temple, a coolie carried a serai of drinking water for us. But the shades of night warned us to loiter no longer, so we remounted, and soon found ourselves once more in our pleasant camping-ground.

Our time in Cashmere was drawing very near to its end. We began to count the days of our holiday. One more expedition we resolved to make, to the Lolab, said to be a beautiful and fertile valley, situated on the north-western side of Cashmere. As the way to it was partly on our return journey, we sent off our horses to meet us at Sopoor. Our return to Srinagur was uneventful. We floated down the stream from Kunbul, where we embarked. There seemed to be a calm everywhere, and, as we stole past gardens, the perfume of flowers came to us on the breeze, and the sound of children’s voices was toned down to music by distance. We remained a day or two at Srinagur, during which time a grand parade of the Maharajah’s troops took place, and his army nearly came to grief, for somehow or other the ammunition in one of the men’s pouches took fire, and a most extraordinary scene ensued, as the fire went down the whole of one of the ranks, and some men were badly wounded. I daresay the men would do well enough if called on to fight, but their ideas of discipline are different from ours.

It came on to rain one day, and a sentry posted near where we were taking shelter coolly took off all his clothes and waited till the storm was over till he dressed again! Baboo Mohas Chander came to see us, and looked quite sorrowful at our departure; but he showed his white teeth with delight when we expressed our hopes of returning some day to Cashmere. He gave us some skinny fowls and a tray of sweetmeats, and then vanished from our sight. In all probability I shall never see the Baboo again, and can say with truth that he always was most courteous to us and attentive to our wants. But oh, how we loathed the skinny fowls! The very sight of chicken was enough to make us shudder. Now in England a chicken is a delicacy—not so, however, in Ireland.

Many years ago, the dépôt of the Rangers marched all through Ireland, and we never could get anything to eat at the inns on which we were billeted but cock and bacon. At length we really had cock and bacon on the brain. It was always our question, on arriving at the inn, when the waiter appeared, ‘Pat, what can we have for dinner?’ and the invariable answer was, ‘Anything yer honour chooses to order.’ ‘Well, then, we’ll have a roast leg of mutton.’ ‘Faith, sorr, there’s not a sheep been killed for the last month or two.’ ‘Oh, then,’ we frantically exclaimed, ‘roast beef.’ ‘Sorra a bit of beef at all, at all.’ ‘What can we have?’ we all shouted in despair. ‘Cock and bacon, sorr,’ triumphantly roared our present tormentor.