But just before leaving the valley this last year I had one further attempt to shoot a Kashmir stag. Six miles out from Srinagar, up the valley, we had a little camp on the edge of the river—a lovely spot in summer when the rich foliage overhangs the water, and when the grassy banks are green and fresh, and the river is full up to the lip; but now when the trees were bare, the banks brown and bleak, and the water at its lowest, an uninviting-looking spot. Moreover, the sky was overcast and threatening. Women who came to draw water from the river were pale and shivering. Our servants were huddled up with the cold. A raw wind whistled down the valley, and snow threatened on the higher mountain.
This latter was precisely what I wanted, for it would drive the stag down to the lower ridges when I would be stalking next day. At four in the morning, therefore, I rose, and after a solid early breakfast mounted my faithful but naughty Tibetan pony, and, accompanied by a guide, rode for seven miles through the darkness and frosty but invigorating air to the foot of the hills, where the two shikaris awaited me.
Like their class, they were hard, keen-looking men, accustomed to live on the mountain-side, to weather hardship and exposure, and live with Nature and wild animals—an altogether different type from the crafty townsman or indolent dwellers on boats. Rahem Sheikh, the chief, was a grizzled old man, with keen, far-seeing eyes, tough physique, and a grave, earnest demeanour as if the business of his life was of the most serious. This, indeed, as I have already said, is a special trait of head shikaris all India over; and during viceregal visits to Native States I have never been able to decide which takes himself most seriously—the head shikari or the European caterer. Both look upon the Viceroy, the Chief, and the Resident, in the way of children who are to be indulged. They have to be amused and fed. They no doubt have unimportant business of their own. But the really serious business in this life is—to the shikari to find game, and to the caterer to provide food. Things would rub along somehow or other without a Viceroy; but how would life be without the head shikari to show the stag, or the caterer to produce meat and drink?
Knowing the point of view of head shikaris I placed myself, therefore, with child-like but misplaced confidence in his hand. But, alas! snow had not fallen on the higher mountains. The clouds had cleared away, and the stags must have remained on the distant peaks—many miles away and thousands of feet higher. Two days of hard climbing and careful search produced no result.
On the third day, rising early and looking out of my tent, I saw a perfectly clear sky and the ground covered thick with hoar frost; a sharp crisp nip was in the air, the thermometer registered 16° Fahr., and away across the glistening reach in the river appeared a rose-pink range of mountains showing up sharply against the clear blue sky. Let the reader imagine a frosty morning in the Thames valley. Let him imagine, what we never have in England, a really clear blue sky. And then, filling up the distant end of one of its most beautiful reaches, let him imagine a lofty range of rose-coloured mountains; and he will then have a picture of the view from my camp at sunrise on the January morning.
Mounting my pony, I rode off in the now radiant sunshine to another hill-side nine miles distant. The frosty morning air at first nipped my ears and fingers, but the hard galloping soon sent the blood tingling through my veins, and in little over an hour I again joined the shikaris. With bated breath and significant glances at the mountain-side, they informed me that they had seen seven hinds and two stags, though the latter were both small.
I dismounted, and left the wicked little Tibetan with his head well buried in a bundle of grass; and then with a coolie to carry my tiffin, overcoat, and rifle, started up the hill-side. One quickly becomes fit in such a climate. This was my third day out, and now I climbed the mountain almost as easily as the shikaris themselves. What on the first day was a decided effort was now a scarcely perceptible strain. Perhaps, too, the greater expectation of finding a stag had something to do with the increased elasticity with which I ascended the mountain. Anyhow, taking off my coat, as with the exertion of climbing and in the brilliant sunshine it was now really hot, I was on the summit of the ridge 3000 feet above the valley, almost without noticing the climb.
At our feet on the opposite side lay a cosy little side-valley with villages nestling among the chenar and mulberry trees. Behind us lay the broad main valley with the great river gliding through it; and away in the distance the rugged Pir Panjal mountains were glistening in the noonday sun.
The scenery was perfect. But again no stags were seen. Till dark we scoured the mountain-side, but all we saw were the tracks of stags—or may be hinds—leading away to the higher mountains.
Then I had to hurry back to camp, and the next day to Srinagar, to prepare for a long journey down to Calcutta for the very dull object of giving evidence to a Royal Commission on Decentralisation.