We arrived to breakfast here, and the coolies have been fractious, and so, when I took off my habit, I had no gown to put on; the right box is not come, and I have no bonnet to put on for the afternoon’s march.
We are in the dâk bungalow, two whitewashed empty rooms, with streaks of damp and dirt all over them. We have been breakfasting in one, and all the deserting husbands have joined us. To be sure, St. Cloup is a jewel of a cook for this sort of thing. He came here in the night and prepared the breakfast we have had, and the luncheon we are going to have. He is now gone on to Sabathoo, where we shall find dinner, and he meant to go on again at night to the tents, half-way between Sabathoo and the camp, to arrange to-morrow’s breakfast and luncheon. God bless you, dearest M.!
There is a ship lost—‘The Protector’—just in the mouth of the river. It was bringing troops and several passengers, but none whose names we know. There is only one soldier saved out of the whole crew.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Buddee, Friday, Nov. 9, 1838.
I SENT you my last Journal the day before yesterday, having brought our history down to the beginning of our second year’s march.
The tents look worse than ever, inasmuch as they are a year older, and the new white patches look very discrepant; but one week, I suppose, will make them all a general dirty brown. The camp looks melancholy without any ladies or children; I miss Mrs. A. particularly. Our dear friend Mr. C., of Umballa, who magistrated us last year, joined us again at the foot of the hills, and had the bright idea to station his gig at the first passable bit of the road, which, as I was shaken into small atoms by eight hours of the jonpaun, was a great relief. Moreover, after seven months of the hills, a wheeled carriage was rather a pretty sight, and I began to think of the rapid advance of science, and the curious inventions of modern times.
We are obliged to stay here, to give time for the things to come up. The old khansamah wanted another day for his arrangements, and it is impossible to refuse him anything, for he never makes a difficulty, and very seldom owns to one.
When we stopped half-way between Sabathoo and this place it was a double march, and there was not a thing come up, not even a chair; and then the dear old khansamah, with his long white beard, went fussing about, in and out of the tents and the trees, and there were fires burning amongst the grass, and tea made in a minute; and then he came with half-a-dozen fresh eggs, which he must have laid himself, and a dish of rice, and in ten minutes we had an excellent breakfast. I met my new horse on the plain: such a beautiful animal, like an Arabian in a picture book, with an arched neck and an arched tail, and he throws out his legs as if he were going to pick up a pin at a great distance. W. was riding it in a prancing sort of manner, that made me think it was the high-spirited animal its former owner described, and to which its present owner would particularly object; but I am happy to say that is a mistake. I rode it one day alone with Captain X., and to-day with G., whose horse was enough to drive any other mad, and my beauty did not care a straw.
‘I am glad, Miss Eden,’ Webb said, ‘you did not take fright at first sight, because the horse would have found you out directly; and he is about the best horse in our stable, which is saying a good deal. I rode him all the way from Kurnaul, and I think it was as much like sitting in a good easy-chair as anything ever I felt.’ I think if the horse had a view of Webb in his travelling costume, he would not consent to be an easy-chair under him: a flannel jacket, with leathers, and leather gaiters, and an immense hat made of white feathers and lined with green, supposed to keep out the sun; and now he has set up a long beard, and he rides by the side of the carriage, either common fashion or sideways, if he is exercising one of our horses. G. says he wonders how the Sikhs will describe him in their journals. We have at last arrived at the possession of Mr. D.’s bonnets, which were packed up exactly a year ago, and have come out as fresh as if the milliner’s girl had just stepped over with them, from the shop at the corner, the blonde inside looking quite blue and fresh, and the gauze ribbon just unrolled. It is very odd, and I am of opinion it would be clever, even now, to have ourselves put up in tin and soldered, till it is time to go home. We should alter no more. The bonnets are particularly pretty. I mean to appear in mine at Ferozepore, to give Runjeet some slight idea of what’s what in the matter of bonnets.