Jhelum, on the river so named,[135] was the next stage of our anxious journey. Thence, next night to Pucka Serai. Arrived at the dâk bungalow, it was found that the building intended for travellers consisted of one room; in it a single bedstead, on which lay an elderly field officer, who, in transit to the hills, had arrived shortly before us. Attendants were absent; supplies unobtainable; there was no alternative but to carry my sick wife from her dooly and place her alongside the sick officer. How the child and infant fared all day is not recorded. Resuming our weary way as the cool breezes of evening set in, early morning found us at Rawul Pindee, then as still a favoured military station. Thence, in evening, towards the foot of the hilly range towards which our journey was directed. Night had closed in before the actual ascent began. As yet there existed no road properly so called. Progress was slow: rocks and boulders in the way caused many difficulties; but these surmounted, the light of our torches showed that in our progress we had attained a region of precipices, rugged valleys, and rapidly running streams.
As morning dawned we were set down at Trait, a place the loveliness of which—surrounded by pine-covered hills; its rich green vegetation, the purling rivulets that traversed the valley, the coolness of the breeze that wafted over us—all these, delightful in themselves, exerted upon my wife an effect to be described as magical. Then it was that from her dooly the pale, emaciated form emerged. Enthusiastically she clutched a twig of pine tree I had just cut; its grateful resin scent brought to recollection associations of bygone days. From that moment her recovery began.
The further journey to Murree was continued, the cool air at the elevation of six to eight thousand feet, to which we had attained, enabling us to travel by day, instead of only by night as in the plains. A road was in course of being made, but as yet that by which we continued was little else than a rugged mountain path, leading upwards through forest composed of sycamore, pine, chestnut, and other trees familiar in our English woods; the altered conditions of temperature, scenery, and general surroundings were health-giving in their effect. Before many hours had passed we were welcomed and hospitably received by our friends, Dr. and Mrs. Banon.[136]
A few days elapsed, and through the station bazaar rumour circulated that on the 11th “a great earthquake would take place at Peshawur,” “a native prophecy” having so declared. On the 13th information was received that on the 11th[137]—namely, the date indicated—Major Mackeson, Chief Political Officer at Peshawur, had been assassinated by an Affghan from Jallahabad; the murderer having delivered his thrust raised his hand to repeat the blow, when—so it was stated—a native rushed between them and received it. Subsequent information led to the belief that the murder of political officers at various other seats of local government had been intended, the existence of a conspiracy with that object well known among the native population.
Rejoining the 10th without delay, like every other officer who observed the signs of the times, I could not help seeing that as an immediate outcome of the Peshawur murder, the aspect of public affairs, not only on the North-Western frontier, but throughout India, rapidly became such as to cause anxiety to administrators, while it led officers and soldiers to speculate on the chances of active service. The prime mover in the murder of Major Mackeson was believed to be Sadhut Khan, chief of the Lalpoora State. Immediately on the occurrence of the murder British troops were moved onwards from Rawul Pindee, orders issued for others to march from other stations to take their place. These proceedings occupied several days, as all such movements had to be performed on foot. In the meantime the troops arriving at Peshawur were received with signs of disaffection by the Mahomedans of that city; while Rawul Pindee, left for the time being with a diminished garrison, was threatened with attack by a band of Hazara men under an impostor named Peshora Singh,[138] who pretended to be a son of Runjeet Singh. That attack did not take place, but a movement somewhat threatening in character was made towards Murree, at the time occupied by invalid soldiers and their families, wives of officers (mine included), and the small number of officials required for the inconsiderable dimensions it had then attained.
On the night of September 28, some hours after darkness had closed in, messengers sent round for that purpose spread the alarm throughout that station that the Hazarees were rapidly advancing up the hill towards it; orders at the same time issued by which all should forthwith repair to the residence of the Commissioner, leaving their houses “standing.” A heavy thunderstorm prevailed at the time; lightning flashes at intervals lit up the miry pathways along which the ladies and children had perforce to walk, in some instances a distance of a couple of miles. My own dear wife, as yet unrecovered, and unequal to such an exertion, was carried, together with her two children, and so reached the general rendezvous, where earlier arrivals had barricaded themselves as best they could by means of tables, chairs, and other articles of furniture. Meanwhile the Commissioner[139] collected such officers, soldiers, and police as could be brought together in the emergency. Marching as best they could in the darkness, they came in contact with the rebels at daylight, and after a smart skirmish dispersed them, the Commissioner being wounded in the rencontre.
By the middle of October my wife, though far from restored to health, was sufficiently well to return with her two children to the plains. Starting from Murree in the evening, her palanquin-bearers speedily showed themselves to be ill-disposed; while she, unprovided with a guard, as some other ladies had been, was rendered helpless in what proved to be a most painful position. Frequent halts, unnecessary delays, repeated demands for buxees (presents), and general disregard of her requests to keep the palanquins together, continued throughout the long dreary hours of darkness, and well on in the following day. It was afternoon before she was deposited at the dâk bungalow of Rawul Pindee; but the party conveying her infant was nowhere in sight, nor could tidings of it be obtained. Thus did several hours pass. Then it was that the arrival of an officer[140] enabled my wife to communicate to him her state of anxiety and alarm. Without delay he proceeded to the residence of General Breton, in command, with the result that a cavalry escort was dispatched in search of the missing ones. Another period of delay, fear, and anxiety, and the palanquin with the infant arrived. It appeared that her carriers had simply deposited her on the roadside in the jungle, and dispersed. What might have happened is painful to contemplate.
For some time past a charitable hospital for the benefit of the native population in and around cantonments had been maintained by subscriptions and other contributions from officers of our regiments, the professional duties connected therewith being performed by myself. Gratitude on the part of those who benefitted by that institution was never expressed verbally, and in many instances not at all; indeed, claims were in some made for pecuniary reward, on the plea that individuals had submitted themselves to be operated upon. In a few instances, however, active gratitude was expressed, even in a somewhat demonstrative manner. The use of chloroform was then in its very early stages. In the instance of a child, that anæsthetic was administered while it lay placidly in its mother’s arms. When under the influence of the drug, the little patient was gently lifted, placed upon a table, operated upon,[141] then replaced in the position from which it had been taken, still apparently asleep, and placid. The surprise of the mother was very great; the whole thing declared by her to be jadoo—that is, witchcraft!