A Holiday in the Happy Valley with Pen and Pencil Part 4

It is possible that this coloured gla.s.s actually had its intended effect of inlaid jewels, and that the gem-encrusted walls, so enthusiastically described by Tavernier and others, as almost matching the peac.o.c.k throne itself, may have been but imitation.

Many of the pilasters were, however, very beautiful--of white marble inlaid with flower patterns of coloured stones--while the arched window openings were filled in with creamy tracery of fair white marble.

Leaving the fort after an all too short visit, we crossed to the great mosque built by Aurungzeb. Ascending--from a garden bright with flowers and blossoming trees--a flight of broad steps, we found ourselves at the end of a rectangular enclosure, at each corner of which stood a red column not altogether unlike a factory chimney. In the centre was a circular basin, very wide, and full of clear water, while in front, three white marble domes rose like great pearls gleaming against the cloudless blue.

The mosque itself is built of red--dark red--sandstone, decorated with floral designs in white marble.

We climbed one of the minarets, and had a view of the city at our feet, and the green and fertile plains stretching dim into the s.h.i.+mmering haze beyond the Ravee River.

Then back to the hotel through the teeming alleys and down to the station--the road, that we had found so bitterly cold in the early morning, now a blaze of sunlight, where the dust stirred up by the shuffling feet of the wayfarers quivered in the heat, and the shadows of men and beasts lay short and black beneath them.

We were not sorry to seek coolness in the bare railway carriage, and let the fresh wind fan us as we sat by the open window and watched the flat, monotonous landscape sliding past.

The journey from Lah.o.r.e to Rawal Pindi is not a very long one--only about 170 miles, or less than the distance from London to York; but an Indian train being more leisurely in its movement than the Great Northern Express, gave us ample time to contemplate the frequent little villages--all very much alike--all provided with a noisy population, among which dogs and children were extremely prevalent; the level plains, broken here and there by clumps of unfamiliar trees, and inhabited by scattered herds of water buffaloes, cattle, and under-sized sheep, all busily engaged in picking up a precarious livelihood, chiefly roast straw, as far as one could see!

We had grown so accustomed to the monotony of the plains, that when we suddenly became aware of a faint blue line of mountains paling to snow, where they melted into the sky, the Himalayas came upon us almost with a shock of surprise.

As we drew nearer, the rampart of mountains that guards India on the north, took form and substance, until at Jhelum we fairly left the plain and began to ascend the lower foothills.

Between Jhelum and Rawal Pindi the line runs through a country that can best be described by that much abused word "weird." Originally a succession of clayey plateaux, the erosion of water has worn and honeycombed a tortuous maze of abrupt clefts and ravines, leaving in many cases mere shafts and pinnacles, whose fantastic tops stand level with the surrounding country. The sun set while we were still winding through a labyrinth of peaks and pits, and the effect of the contrasting red gold lights and purple shadows in this strange confused landscape was a thing to be remembered.

We rolled and b.u.mped into Pindi at 8 P.M., having travelled nearly 1000 miles during our two days and nights in the train.

Our friends the Smithsons were on the platform waiting to receive us and welcome us as strangers and pilgrims in an unknown land. They have only remained here to meet us, and they proceed to Kashmir to-morrow, sleeping in a carriage in the quiet backwater of a siding, to save themselves the worry of a desperately early start to-morrow morning.

The direct route into Kashmir by Murree is impa.s.sable, the snow being still deep owing to a very late spring following a severe winter. This will oblige us to go round by Abbotabad, so I wired to my friend General Woon to warn him that we propose to invade his peaceful home.

_Sunday, March 26._--We stayed a couple of days at Pindi, in order to make arrangements for transporting ourselves and our luggage into Kashmir. The journey can be made _via_ Murree in about a couple of days by mail tonga, but it is a joyless and horribly wearing mode of travel. The tonga, a two-wheeled cart covered by an arched canvas hood and drawn by two half-broken horses, holds a couple of pa.s.sengers comfortably, who sit behind and stare at the flying white ribbon of road for long, long hours, while the driver urges his wild career. The horses are changed every ten miles or so, and horrible and blood-curdling tales are extant of the villainy and wrong-headedness of some of these tonga ponies, how they jib for sheer pleasure, and leap over the low parapet that guards them from the precipice merely to vex the helpless traveller. When we suggested that to sit facing the past might be conducive to a sort of sea-sickness and certainly to headache, and that a total absence of view was to be deprecated, it was impressed upon us that if the horses darted over the "khud," we could slip out suddenly and easily, leaving the driver and the ponies to be dashed to pieces by themselves! This appeared sound, but, upon inquiry I could not hear that any accident had ever happened to any traveller going into Kashmir by tonga.

Besides the tonga, there are other modes of going into Kashmir. For instance, the sluggish bullock-cart--safe, deliberate, and affording ample leisure for admiring the scenery; the light native cart, or ekka, consisting of a somewhat small body screened by a wide white hood, and capable of holding far more luggage than would at first sight seem possible, and drawn by a scraggy-looking but much enduring little horse tied up by a wild and complicated system of harness (chiefly consisting of bits of old rope) between a pair of odd V-shaped shafts.

Finally, there is the landau--a civilised and luxurious method of conveyance which greatly appealed to us. We decided upon chartering a landau for ourselves and servant, and two ekkas to carry the heavy baggage.

Mr. de Mars, the landlord of the hotel, was most obliging in helping us to arrange for our journey, promising to provide us with carriage and ekkas for a sum which did not seem to me to be at all exorbitant.

I soon found, however, that the worthy Sabz Ali did not at all approve of the arrangement. It was extremely hard to find out by means of his scant English what he proposed to do; but I decided that here was an excellent opportunity of finding out what he was good for, so we determined to give him his head, and let him make his own arrangements.

A smile broke over his swarthy face for a moment, and he disappeared, coming back shortly afterwards just as the already ordered ekkas made their appearance.

These he promptly dismissed--much to the vexation of Mr. de Mars; but I explained to him that I intended to see if my man was really to be depended upon as an organiser, and that I should allow him to work upon his own lines.

We had arranged to sleep in a carriage drawn into a siding at the station, to avoid a very early start next morning. So after dinner we strolled down towards our bedroom to find our henchman on the platform, full of zeal and energy. I found out (with difficulty) that he proposed to go on to Ha.s.san Abdal with the luggage that night by goods train; that we should find him there next morning, and that all would be right. So he departed, and we rolled ourselves up in our "resais," and wondered how it would all turn out.

On Friday morning we rattled out of Rawal Pindi about seven, and slowly wound through a rather stony and uninteresting country, until we arrived at the end of our railway journey about ten o'clock, and scrambled out at the little roadside station.

Our excellent factotum, Sabz Ali, awaited us with a capacious landau, and informed us that the heavy baggage had gone on in the ekkas. So we set forth at once on our 42-mile drive to Abbotabad without "reposing for a time in the rich valley of Hussun Abdaul, which had always been a favourite resting-place of the Emperors in their annual migrations to Cashmere" (_Lalla Rookh_).

The landau, though roomy and comfortable, was, like Una's lion, a "most unhasty beast," and we rolled quite slowly and deliberately over a distinctly uninteresting plain for about twenty miles, until we came to Haripur, a pretty village enclosed in a perfect ma.s.s of fruit trees in full bloom.

Here we changed horses, and lunched at the dak bungalow--a first and favourable experience of that useful inst.i.tution. The dak bungalow generally consists of a simple wooden building containing a dining-room and several bedrooms opening on to a verandah, which usually runs round three sides of the house. The furniture is strong and simple, consisting of tables, bedsteads, and some long chairs. A khansamah or cook provides food and liquor at a fixed and reasonable rate.

Travellers are only permitted to remain for twenty-four hours if the rooms are wanted, each person paying one rupee (1s. 4d.) for a night, or half that amount for a mere day halt.

The khansamah would appear to be the only functionary in residence until the hour of departure draws near, when a whole party of underlings--chowkidars, bheesties, and sweepers--appear from nowhere in particular; and the lordly traveller, having presented them with about twopence apiece, rolls off along the dusty white road, leaving the khansamah and his myrmidons salaaming on the verandah.

We made the mistake of over-tipping at first in India, not realising that a couple of annas out here go as far as a s.h.i.+lling at home; but it is a mistake which should be rectified as soon as possible, for you get no credit for lavishness, but are merely regarded as a first-cla.s.s idiot. No sane man would ever expend two annas where one would do!

On leaving Haripur the road began to ascend a little, and at the village of Sultanpur we entered a valley, through which a shrunken stream ran, and which we crossed more than once.

Then a long ascent of about eleven miles brought us near our destination.

It had been threatening rain all the afternoon, and now the weather made its threat good, and the rain fell in earnest. It grew dark, too; and, finally, not having had any reply to my telegram to General Woon, we did not know whether we were expected or not.

Sabz Ali, however, had no doubts on the matter. We were approaching his own particular country, and whether "Gen'l 'Oon Sahib" was there to entertain us or not, _he_ was; and so it was "alright."

Our poor horses were done to a turn, a heavy landau with five people in it, as well as a fair amount of luggage, being no trifle to drag up so long and steep a hill. So we had to walk up the last rise to the General's house in the dark and rain, mildly cheered, however, by finding the two ekkas just arrived with the baggage.

A most hearty greeting from my old friend and his charming wife awaited us, and after a hasty toilet and an excellent dinner we felt at peace with all the world.

Both yesterday (Sat.u.r.day) and to-day it has been cold and disagreeable.

The past winter, I am told, has been a very severe one, and the melancholy brown skeletons of all the eucalyptus trees in the place show the dismal results of the frost.

This forenoon the day darkened, and a very severe thunderstorm broke. So dark was it at lunch that candles had to be lighted in haste, and even now (4 P.M.) I can barely see to write.

_Thursday, March_ 30.--Monday was showery, and Tuesday decidedly wet; but, in spite of the hospitable blandishments of our kind hosts, we were most anxious to get on, as, having arranged with the Smithsons to go into the Astor district to shoot, it was most important to reach Srinagar before the first of April--the day upon which the shooting pa.s.ses were to be issued to sportsmen in rotation of application. Knowing that only ten pa.s.ses were to be given for Astor, and that several men were ahead of me, I felt that we were running it somewhat fine to leave only three days for the journey.

General Woon, who knew Kashmir well, did his very best to dissuade us from attempting the pa.s.ses into Astor, reading to us gloomy extracts from his journal, and pointing out that it was no fit country for a lady in early spring.

He did much to shake our enthusiasm, but still I felt we must do our best to "keep tryst" with the Smithsons. So, on Tuesday, we sent on the heavy luggage in two ekkas which Sabz Ali had procured, the two others being only hired from Ha.s.san Abdal to Abbotabad.

Sabz Ali had pointed out that, although he himself was a wonderful man, and could do almost, if not quite, everything, a second servant would be greatly to our (and his) advantage. So, acting on my permission, he engaged one Ayata--a gentle person of a sheep-like disposition, who did everything he was told, and nothing that he was told not to, during our sojourn in Kashmir.

[1] Robertson's _India_, Appendix.

CHAPTER IV

ABBOTABAD TO SRINAGAR

Dismal tidings came in of floods and storms on the Ha.s.san Abdal road. The river had swollen, and both men and beasts had been swept away while trying to cross. Undeterred, however, by such news, even when backed by warnings and persuasions from our friends, we set forth in the rain yesterday morning. The prospect was not cheerful--a grey veil of cloud lay over all the surrounding hills, here and there deepening into dark and angry thunder-clouds. The road was desperately heavy, but the General had most kindly sent on a pair of mules ahead, and, with another pair in the shafts, our own nags took a holiday as far as Manserah.

The weather grew worse. It rained very heavily and thundered with great vigour, and as we straggled up the deeply-muddied slope to the dak bungalow at Manserah we felt somewhat low; but we did not in the least realise what was before us!

Our road had lain through fairly level plains, with low cuttings here and there, where the saturated soil was already beginning to give way and fall upon the road in untidy heaps; but this did not foreshadow what might occur later.

At Manserah we met Hill and Hunt, two young gunners, _en route_ for Astor.

They left in a tonga soon after we arrived, and we did not expect to see their speedier outfit again.