Chapter 16

THE MACHIPURA

Wednesday, _September_ 27.—We left Srinagar yesterday, very sorry indeed to part from the many good friends we have made and left there. Truly Kashmir is a hospitable country, and we have met with more kind friendliness in the last six months than we could have believed possible, coming as we did, strangers and pilgrims into a strange land. Our consolation is that every one comes “Home” sooner or later, so that we can look forward to meeting most of our friends again ere very long, and recalling with them memories of this happy summer with those who have done so much to make it so.

Farewell, Srinagar! Your foulness and inward evilness were lost in the background behind your picturesque and tumble-down houses as we floated for the last time down Jhelum’s olive waters, where the sharp-nosed boats lay moored along the margin or, poled by their sturdy Mangis and guided by the chappars of their wives and daughters, shot athwart the eddying flood, breaking the long reflections of the storeyed banks.

Past the Palace of the Maharajah, its fantastic mixture of ancient fairness and modern ugliness blending into a homogeneous beauty as distance lent it enchantment.

Past the temples, their tin-coated roofs refulgent in the brilliant sunlight; under the queer wooden bridges, their solid stone piers parting the suave flow of water into noisy swirl and gurgle.

Past the familiar groups of grave, white-robed men solemnly washing themselves, then scooping up and drinking the noisome fluid; past their ladies squatting like frogs by the river-side, washing away at clothes which never seem a whit the cleanlier for all their talk and trouble.

Past the children and fowls, and cows and crows, all hob-nobbing together as usual.

Past all these sights—so strange to us at first and now so strangely familiar—we floated, till the broken remnant of the seventh bridge lay behind us, and the lofty poplars that hem in the Baramula road stood stark and solemn in their endless perspective.

Here a jangling note, out of tune and harsh, was struck by the dobie, with whom we had a grave difference of opinion regarding the washing.

That gentleman having “lost by neglect” certain articles of my kit—to wit sundry shirts and other garments—and having rendered others completely _hors de combat_ by reason of his sinful method of washing, I decided to “cut” three rupees off his remuneration.

This decision seemed to have taken from him all that life held of worth, and he implored me to spare his wife, children, and home, all of whom would be broken up and ruined if I were cruel enough, to enforce my awful threat. Seeing that I was obdurate, being well backed by the infuriated Jane, whose underwear showed far more lace and open work than nature intended, the wretched dobie melted into loud and tearful lamentation, and perched himself howling in the prow. This soon became so boresome that I deported him to Hesketh’s boat, where he underwent another defeat at the hands of that irate Lancer, whose shirts and temper had suffered together; finally the woeful washerman, still howling lugubriously, was landed on the river bank, and we saw and heard him no more!

Down the gentle river we swiftly glided all day, while the Takht and Hari Parbat grew smaller and bluer, and Srinagar lay below them invisible in its swathing greenery.

Reaching Sumbal at sunset, we turned to the left down a narrow canal, and soon the Wular lay—a sheet of molten gold—upon our right; and by the time we had moored alongside a low strip of reedy bank, the glorious rosy lights had faded from the snows of the Pir Panjal, and their royal purple and gold had turned to soft ebony against the primrose of the sky.

A few hungry mosquitoes worried us somewhat before sunset, promising worse to follow; but the sharp little breeze that came flickering over the Wular after dark seemed to upset their plans, and send them shivering and hungry to shelter among the reeds and rushes.

This morning we crossed the Wular, starting as the first pale dawn showed over the eastern hills.

Before the sun rose over Apharwat, his shafts struck the higher snows and turned them rosy; while the lower slopes, their distant pines suffused with strong purple, stood reflected in the placid mirror of the lake.

“Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain tops with sovran eye,”

but seldom a more lovely one than this—our last on the Wular Lake.

The active figures of the propellent Mangis, and the quiet ones of their ladies at the helm, completed a picture to be recalled with a sigh when we are parted by thousands of miles from this entrancing valley.

Sopor we had understood to be but an uninteresting place, but we were, perhaps, inclined to regard things Kashmirian through somewhat rosy spectacles. Anyhow, we rather liked Sopor. Mooring close alongside a remarkably picturesque building standing in the midst of a smooth green lawn, which was once, I believe, a dâk bungalow, we halted to make arrangements for the hire of coolies and ponies to take us inland, and I went off to the post-office for letters and to make inquiries as to the probable depth of water in the river Pohru.

Our skipper, Juma, affirmed that there was no water to speak of; but Juma probably—nay, certainly—prefers the _otium_ of a sojourn at Sopor to the toil of punting up the Pohru.

The postmaster declared that there was lots of water, but qualified his optimism by saying that it was falling fast. So we arranged for our land transport of ponies for ourselves, and a dandy for Hesketh, to meet us one march up the river at Nopura, while we ourselves set forward in our boats to Dubgam, three or four miles down the Jhelum, where the Pohru joins it. At the entrance are large stores of timber, principally deodar, which is floated down from the Lolab, stored at Dubgam, and sent thence down country and otherwhere for sale. The great boom across the river to catch the floating logs had been carried away in the flood, and merely showed a few melancholy and ineffectual spikes of wood sticking up above the now calm and sluggish river.

We towed up easily enough, through a quiet and peaceful country, which only became gorgeous under the alchemy of sunset, reaching Nopura in good time to tie up before dinner.

_Friday, September 29_.—On Thursday morning we started, as usual, at dawn, and proceeded to pole and haul our way up the devious channel of the Pohru. Some four or five miles we accomplished successfully, although there were ominous signs of a gradual lack of water, until we came upon a hopeless shallow, where the river, instead of concentrating its energies on one deep and narrow channel, had run to waste over a wide bed, where the wrinkling wavelets showed the golden brown of the gravel just below the surface. Our big dounga stuck hard and fast at once, and Captain Jurna promptly gave up all hope of getting farther. He was, in fact, greatly gratified to find his prophesies come true, and an insufferable air of “I told you so” overspread his face as he wagged his head with mock sorrow, and gently poked the bottom with his pole to show how firmly fixed we were.

Having an invalid with us, however, it was important to gain every easy mile we could, and it was not until all the fleet in turn had attempted to cross the shallow, and failed, that we made up our minds to take to our land transport. It was uncommonly hot in the full glare of the sun as Hesketh in his dandy, Jane on her “tattoo,” and I on foot set forward for the forest house at Harwan, which lay some five miles away across the fields, where the rice is now being busily cut.

At the foot of a very brown and parched-looking hill stood the little wooden hut, facing the valley of the Pohru and the Kaj-nag range. Hot and thirsty, we blessed the good Mr. Blunt, the kindly forest officer, who had so courteously given us permission to use the forest huts of the Lolab and the Machipura. Our blessings of Blunt turned swiftly to curses directed towards the chowkidar, who was not to be seen, and who had left the hut firmly fastened from within. An attempt to force the door brought upon us the resentment of a highly irritable swarm of big red wasps, who plainly regarded us as objectionable intruders; and Jane was really getting quite cross (she says—she always does—that it was I who lost my temper)—before the bold sweeper, prying round the back premises, found an unbarred window, and the joy bells rang once more.

The Colonel turned up from the Malingam direction, and pitched his tent in the rest-house compound; and, as the afternoon grew cooler, he and I sallied forth to select a few chikor for the pot.

The chikor is extremely like the ordinary European redleg or Barbary partridge, not only in colouring, but in habit, loving the same dry, scrub-covered country, and preferring, like him, to run rather than fly when pursued. The chikor, however, is certainly far superior in the capacity of what fowl fanciers call “a table bird,” being, in fact, truly excellent eating.

He is not an altogether easy bird to shoot, owing to his annoying predilection for the steepest and rockiest hillsides, and those most densely clothed in spiny jungle, wherein lurking, he chooses the inopportune moment when the sportsman is hopelessly entangled, like Isaac’s ram, to rise chuckling and flee away to another hiding-place.

Without dogs, he would be often extremely hard to find; but unluckily for himself, being a true Kashmiri bird, he cannot help making a noise, and thereby betraying his presence. His corpse, when dead, is hard to find in the jungle, and a runner is, of course, hopeless without canine help. It is well, therefore, to kill him as dead as possible, and to that end I used No. 4 shot, with, I think, a certain advantage over Walter, who shot with No. 6, and who, in consequence, lost several birds.

The friendliness and sociability of the beasts and birds of Kashmir has been a great joy to us. The thing can be overdone, though, and both the wasps and the rats of Harwan were inclined to overstep the bounds of decorum.

The latter were obviously overjoyed to see visitors, and visions of unlimited plunder from our festive board would, of course, put them somewhat above themselves. Still, they should have refrained from rioting so openly around our beds as soon as the lights were out, and Jane was naturally indignant when a large one ran over her feet!

On Friday morning we left Harwan, pretty early, as usual, for it is still somewhat too warm to travel comfortably in the middle of the day. The Colonel (always an early bird) got away first, followed by our invalid in his dandy, while Jane and I remained to hunt the loiterers out of camp. A glorious morning, and the cheering knowledge that breakfast was in front of us, sent us merrily along for a mile or two, until branching paths led us to inquire of an intelligent Kashmiri, who appeared to be busily engaged in reaping rice with a penknife, as to the road taken by our precursors, especially the tiffin coolie!

The industrious one had seen no sahibs at all pass by. This was a blow, and Jane and I sat down to review the situation. We finally decided that the son of the soil was indulging in what the great and good Winston Churchill has called a “terminological inexactitude,” as the others must have gone by one of the two roads; so, putting our fortunes to the touch, we took the left-hand path, and were in due time rewarded by reaching Sogul, and there finding our pioneers peacefully seated under a tree, and breakfast ready.

Leaving Sogul, we skirted for some miles a bare ridge which rose on the right, and which looked an ideal ground for chikor, and then turned into a beautiful valley drained by the Pohru, now quite a small and insignificant stream.

Drogmulla, our objective, lies about fourteen miles from Harwan, and the forest house is a full mile beyond the village, at the end of a somewhat steep and winding path.

A welcome sight was the snug rest-house, perched upon a hillock above a fussy little stream and surrounded by a fine clump of deodars.

A tiny lawn in front was decorated with an artificial tank full of water-plants, and through the opening, among the trees, we saw the snowy crest of Shambrywa and the Kaj-nag rising over the deeply-wooded foothills.

Drogmulla was so fascinating a spot, and the weather was so remarkably fine, that we made up our minds to remain here for a few days. That old red-bearded snake, the shikari, has sent the Colonel into a seventh heaven of anticipation by pointing to the encircling forest with promise of “pul-lenty baloo, sahib, this pul-lace.” We straightway ordained a honk.

Our sick soldier is so much better since leaving Gulmarg that he is able to hop “around” with considerable activity on his crutches.

_Saturday, September_ 30, 4 P.M.—Walter and I have been bear-honking all day in a district reputed to be simply crawling with bears. I love bear-honking; it is such a peaceful occupation.

After a stiff and very hot scramble up a rugged hillside covered with the infuriating scrub through which nothing but a reptile could crawl easily, the spot is reached within short range of which (in the opinion of the “oldest inhabitant,” backed up by the “Snake”) the bear _must_ pass.

Here the battery of rifles and guns is carefully arranged, and I proceed to wipe my heated brow and settle down to the calm enjoyment of the honk. Drawing forth my cigar-case, I am soon wreathed in the fragrant clouds engendered by the incineration of a halfpenny cheroot, and, with a sigh of satisfaction, I spread out my writing or sketching materials and proceed to scribble or paint, calm in the knowledge that nothing on earth is in the least likely to disturb the flow of ideas, or interrupt the laying on of a broad flat wash. Now and again, lazily, I lean back to watch the witless hoverings of a big butterfly, or sleepily listen to the increasing sound of the tom-toms and the yells of the beaters, whose voices, as those of demons of the pit, rend the peaceful air and add to my sense of Olympian aloofness!

A feeling of drowsiness steals over me; that succulent cold chikor, followed by a generous slice of cake upon which I so nobly lunched, clouds somewhat my active faculties, and the article—“A Bear Battue in the Himalayas”—which I am engaged in writing for the _Field_—seems to flag a little.

Come, come! Begone dull sloth—let me continue—

“As the sound of the beaters swells upon the ear, and the thunder of the tom-toms grows more insistent, the keen-eyed sportsman grasps more firmly the lever of his four-barrelled Nordenfeldt and prepares to play upon the bears his hail of stinging missiles. Hark! The plot is thickening, behind yon dense screen at the end of the cover the ph—— bears are beginning to crowd, the pattering of their feet upon the dead leaves sends a thrill through the beating heart of the expectant sportsman. A few bears break back amid wild yells from the coolies. One or two odd ones dart out here and there at angles of the covert. Steady! Steady! Here they are, following the lead of yon fine old cock; with a whirr and a rush the bouquet is upon us. The shikari, mad with excitement, presses the second Gatling and the light Howitzer into our hands as he screams: ‘Bear to right, sahib!—Bear over!!—Bear behind!!! Bang—bang!’”

“Eh? What? Oh, all right, shikari. Honk finished? Is it? Saw nothing? Dear me! how very odd. Very well, then gather up my guns and things, and we’ll go on to the next beat.”

_Sunday, October 1_.—To-day being Sunday, we have been idle and happy—sketching, loafing, and enjoying the scenery and the glorious weather. Our bear-honk yesterday was only productive of annas to the beaters, but we picked up some chikor on the way home, and we have found mushrooms growing close to the hut, so that our lower natures are also satisfied. After lunch I mustered up energy sufficient to take me down to the village to sketch a native hut which, surrounded by a patch of flaming millet, had struck me on Friday as an extraordinary bit of colour. Jane and Walter, after many “prave ’orts” about climbing the ridge behind Drogmulla, contented themselves with a minor ascent of a knoll about fifty feet high, while the Lancer, reckless in his increasing activity, managed to trip over his crutches and give himself an extremely unfortunate fall.

_Monday, October 2_.—There was a man who, during our bear-honk on Saturday, rendered himself conspicuous, partly by reason of his likeness to my shikari, and also because of his complete knowledge of the whereabouts of all bears for many miles around. He was quite glad to impart much information to us, and so won upon the sporting but too trustful heart of the brave Colonel, that he was retained by that officer in order that he might show sport to the Philistines, and annas and even rupees were bestowed upon him; and he and the old original “Snake” were sent forward on Saturday evening, as Joshua and Caleb, to spy out the promised land in the neighbourhood of Tregam.

Lured by rumours of many bears, Walter and I set forth at daylight for Tregam, leaving Jane and the youthful Lancer (once more, alas! reduced to stiff bandages and a painful relapse) in possession of the hut. We “hadna gane a mile—a mile but barely twa,” when the old shikari met us with the painful intelligence that two sahibs were already at Tregam, and had killed many bears there, grievously wounding the rest; so we altered course eight points to port, crossed the Pohru, and made for Rainawari.

A sharp climb over a wooded ridge (on the top of which we halted for breakfast), followed by a steep descent, brought us into a flat and well-cultivated plain, which sloped gently from the foothills of the Kaj-nag to the bed of the Pohru. Everywhere, in the glowing sunlight, the villagers were busily engaged in reaping the rice, which lay in ripe brown swathes along the little fields. The walnuts, of which there are a great plenty in this district, have been lately gathered, some few trees only still remaining, loaded with a heavy crop, but the main produce lay drying in heaps in the villages as we rode through.

The road to Rainawari seemed curiously devious. A Kashmiri track seldom shies at a hill, but pursues its way, heedless of gradient, for its objective; but this path imitated a corkscrew in its windings, and reduced us to the utmost limit of our patience before, passing through a small village whose dull-coloured houses were enlivened with gorgeous festoons of scarlet chilies, we climbed a steep little hill and found ourselves upon a park-like lawn or clearing, and facing the cluster of rough wooden shanties which compose the Rainawari forest bungalow and its outhouses. Behind the huts the densely-wooded hill drops sharply to where a stream of good and pure water riots among the maidenhair and mosses.

A large and inquisitive company of apes came up from the wood to take stock of us, and I sat for a long time watching them as they played about quite close to me, feeding, chattering, and quarrelling, entirely unconcerned by the presence of their human spectator.

_Friday, October 6_.—All Tuesday was spent in honking bear in the lower woods which stretch far towards the Pohru. The high hills which rise above, covered with jungle, are said to be too large to work, and I can well believe it! For the first drive I was posted on a steep bank overlooking a most lovely little hollow, where the shafts of sunlight fell athwart the grey trunks and heavy green masses of the pines, lighting up the yellow leaves of the sumachs till they glowed like gold, and casting a flickering network of strong lights and shadows among the tangled mazes of undergrowth. A happy family of magpies, grey-blue above, with barred tails and yellow beaks, flitted about in restless quest, their constant cries being the only sound which broke the peaceful stillness, until the faint and distant sound of shouts and tom-toms showed that the first act of the farce had begun.

Towards the end of the third beat, while I was drowsily digesting tiffin, and, truly, not far from napping, I was electrified by the report of a rifle, followed by yells and a second shot! The beaters redoubled their shouts, and the tom-tommers seemed like to burst their drums.

My shikari, writhing with extreme excitement, hissed, “Baloo, sahib, baloo!” and began aimlessly running to and fro, apparently hoping to meet the bear somewhere. It was truly gay for a few minutes, but as nothing further occurred, and the beaters grew very hoarse with their prodigious efforts, I hurried on to Walter’s post to learn what had happened.

A bear had suddenly come out of the cover some 40 yards off, and stood to look. The Colonel missed it, whereupon it dashed forward, passing within a few yards of him, and he missed it again. It departed at top speed across some open ground behind him, and gained the great woods which stretch away to the Kaj-nag, and never shall we see that bear again! The Colonel was much disgusted, and if language—hot, strong, and plenty of it—could have slain that bear, he would have dropped dead in his tracks.

The beaters brought up a wonderful tale of how another bear, badly wounded in the leg, had charged through their lines and gone back. They stuck to their story, and either a second bear actually existed or they are colossal liars. I incline to the latter theory.

We had wasted all our luck. No more bears came to look at us, and so, late in the afternoon, we sought the rest-house and consolation from Jane and Hesketh, who had arrived from Drogmulla.

I had occasion to deplore the bad manners of the rats at Harwan, but their conduct was exemplary compared with that of the rats of Rainawari! I had been writing my journal, according to my custom, before going to sleep, and hardly had “lights out” been sounded than a rat went off with my candle, literally from below my very nose. Then, from the inadequately partitioned chamber where the invalid vainly sought repose, came sounds of strife—boots and curses flying—followed by an extraordinary scraping and scuffling. A large rat, having fallen into the big tin bath, was making bids for freedom by ineffectually leaping up the slippery sides. At last he contrived to get out, and peace reigned until we managed to get to sleep.

Wednesday was spent honking in the forlorn hope of a bear, I have now spent more than fourteen days in pursuit of black bear, and I have only seen one. Every one said to me in spring, “Oh, go to the Lolab, it’s full of bear,” I went, and was informed that it was a late season and I was too early—the bears were not yet awake. I was consoled by learning that later on, when the mulberries were ripe, the berry-loving beasts jostled one another in the pursuit of the delicacy so much, that they were no sport I went down from Gulmarg for three days, honking among the mulberries, but saw none. Then I was told the maize season was undoubtedly the best. Now the maize is full ripe; the maize fields are tempting in their golden glory, and the only thing wanting to complete the picture is a big, black bear.

Either my luck has been particularly bad (and I think it has, as the Colonel got a fine bear below Gulmarg, and had another chance at Rainawari), or else there are not so many bears in real life as exist in the imaginations of those who know. My own theory is, that, unless he has remarkable luck, a stranger, in the hands of an ignorant shikari, and knowing nothing of the language, has but a remote chance of sport. If the shikari does not happen to know the district thoroughly, he is necessarily in the hands of the villagers, and has to trust to them to arrange the beats and place the guns. The villagers want their four annas for a day’s shouting, but do not know or care if a bear is in the neighbourhood, so, having planted the gun (and shikari with him), they proceed to beat after their own fashion, in other words to stroll, in Indian file, like geese across a common, along the line of least resistance, instead of spreading out and searching all the thickest jungle.

Much yelling serves both to cheer the sahib, and frighten away any bear which might otherwise haply frighten them.

I cannot say I regret the time I have spent looking for bear. The scenery has always been fine—sometimes magnificent, and there has always been a certain cheering hope, which sustained me as I lay hour after hour in the Malingam Nullah, or sat expectant amid ever varying and always beautiful glades and passes, watching the bird life, and storing up scenes and memories which I know I shall never forget.

Alas! we have but a very few days yet before us in Kashmir, and it is lamentable, for now the climate is simply perfect, the air clear and clean, and without the haze of summer; the first crispness of coming autumn making itself felt most distinctly in the early hours of morning ere

“Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head, The glorious sun uprist;”

and each dawn saw us up and out to watch these sunrises, whose splendour cannot be expressed on paper. This morning it was more than usually wonderful, the whole flank of Nanga Parbat and his lesser peaks, turning from clear lemon to softest rose, stood radiant above the purple shades of the great range which lies around Gurais. In the middle distance, rising above the level yellow of the plain, still dim and shadowy below the morning light, rolled wave upon wave of the blue hills which hold in their embrace the fruitful Lolab. At our feet the deodars, still dark with the shadow of night, crept up the dewy slope upon whose top we stood. Then suddenly

“The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,”

flamed over the eastern ridges, and in a flood of glory the soft shadows and pallid lights of the dawn became merged in the brilliance of a Kashmir autumn day.

Our march yesterday from Rainawari to Kitardaji was charming. I had no idea that this Machipura country, which is not much visited by summer sojourners in Kashmir, was so fine. The district lies along the lower shoulders and foothills of the Kaj-nag, and, while lacking the savage grandeur of the Lidar or Upper Sind, yet possesses the charm of infinite variety and, in this early autumn, a climate in which it is a pure joy to live. On leaving Rainawari we followed up a river valley for some distance, and then wound through richly cultivated hollows and past well-wooded hills, where the dark silver firs and the deodars were lit up by splashes of scarlet and orange, and the deciduous sumach and thorn-bushes hung out their autumn flags. Walnuts—the trees in many places turning yellow—were being gathered into heaps, and the apple trees, reddening in the autumn glow, hung heavy with abundant fruit.

Turning into a narrow gorge, where the trees overhung the path and shaded the wanderer with many an interlaced bough; where ferns grew in great green clumps, and the friendly magpies chattered in the luminous shade, I hurried on, having stayed behind the others to sketch. Up and up, till only pines waved over me, and the track, leading along the edge of a deep khud, opened out at last upon a plateau, hot and sunlit; here an entrancing panorama of Nanga Parbat and the whole range of mountains round Haramok caused me to stop “at gaze” until a mundane desire for breakfast sent me scurrying down the dusty and slippery descent to Larch, where I found, as I had hoped, the rest of the party assembled expectant around the tiffin basket, while the necromancer, Sabz Ali, had just succeeded in producing the most delightful stew, omelette, and coffee from the usual native toy kitchen, made, apparently, in a few minutes with a couple of stones and a dab of mud!

It has been an unfailing marvel to us how, in storm or calm, rain or fine, the native cook seems always able to produce a hot meal with such apparently inadequate materials as he has at his command. Give him a fire in the open, screened by stones and a mud wall, a _batterie de cuisine_ limited to one or two war-worn “degchies,” and let him have a village fowl and half-a-dozen tiny eggs, and he will in due time serve up, with modest pride, a most excellent repast.

The remaining half of our twelve-mile march lay along a continually rising track, which finally brought us to Kitardaji, a cosy pine-built hut, perched upon a hill clothed with deodars, at the foot of which ran the inevitable stream.

This, alas! is our last Kashmir camping-ground, and it is one of the most charming of all.

At 8.15 this morning we bade farewell to Kitardaji. We had got up before dawn to see the sunrise, but afterwards took things leisurely, as the march is short to Baramula, and our boats were to be in waiting there, and we had made all arrangements for a landau and ekkas to be in readiness to take us down to Rawal Pindi, while the Colonel returned up the Jhelum for more shooting before rejoining his wife at Bandipur.

The march of about thirteen miles from Kitardaji to Baramula is fine—the views of Nanga Parbat in the early hours, before the sun’s full strength cast a golden glow over the distance, were magnificent, and long we lingered upon the last ridge, gazing over the great valley, ringed with its guardian mountains, ere we sadly turned our backs for the last time on the scene, and wended our way downward to Baramula and our boats.

Kashmir seems to be as difficult to get out of as to get into! What was our amazement and disgust to find neither landau nor ekkas, nor, apparently, any chance of getting them!

Baramula was in a ferment, and wild confusion reigned because the Viceroy, having somewhat suddenly determined to come to Jammu, the Maharajah and all his suite, together with the Resident and his belongings, were to start down the road at once, and all transport was commandeered by the State. Here was a coil! Officers innumerable, who had stayed in Kashmir until the limit of their leave, were struggling vainly to get on, and had got to Baramula only to find all transport in the hands of the State officials. Some few had, by fair means or foul, got hold of an ekka or two and hidden them; others had seized ponies, but nothing to harness them to. A few of the younger men set forth on foot, and others had their servants out in ambush on the roads to try and collect transport.

It was most important that we should get on, as Hesketh had to be in Pindi to go before a medical board on the 14th, in order to be invalided home to England; and as he was most anxious to catch a steamer sailing on the 25th, he had no time to spare.

I telegraphed to Sir Amar Singh for authority to engage ekkas, and I sent for the Tehsildhar of Baramulla to complain of my ekkas being taken. He appeared in due course—a somewhat pert little person—who promised to do what he could, which I knew would be nothing. A farewell dinner on board Walter’s ship concluded a fairly busy day.

_Saturday, October 7_.—A strenuous day, to say the least of it. Sir Amar Singh most courteously met my wishes, and himself directed the local authorities to assist me. Armed with this power, I again sent for the Tehsildhar, who promised many ekkas, but appeared to have some difficulty in fulfilling his promises. I spent the forenoon in hunting transport, sending out my servants also in pursuit. The Tehsildhar produced one ekka with great pomp, as earnest of what he could and would do later on.

During the afternoon the landau turned up from Srinagar, and at 6 P.M. one of my myrmidons rushed in to say that two ekkas had arrived at the dâk bungalow.

It was but a few yards away, and in a couple of minutes I was on the spot. The ekkas had come up from Pindi, and the sahib who had lured them to Baramula seemed astonished at my method of taking them over. In an uncommonly short while the ekkas were parked, with the landau, close to the boats and under strict watch, while all harness was brought on board my dounga, just in time, as native officials of some sort romped up and claimed the ekkas, and threatened to beat my servants. It was explained to them gently, but firmly, that if they touched my ekkas or landau they would taste the waters of the Jhelum. We were then left in peaceful possession.

_Tuesday, October 10_.—On Sunday morning we really saw our way to making a start. We had three ekkas collected, and the Tehsildhar produced a fourth with a great flourish, as though in expectation of a heavy tip. The landau was being piled with odds and ends while the last bits of business were being got through. Juma and his crew were paid and tipped (grumbling, of course, for the Kashmiri is a lineal descendant of the horse-leech). The shikari went to Smithson, and the sweeper and permanent coolie were transferred to the assistant forest officer, while Ayata (in charge of Freddie, the blackbird) scrambled into the leading ekka.

By noon all was ready, and amid the rattle and jingle of many harness bells and the salaams of the domestics, we bowled out of Baramula, and set forward down the valley of the Jhelum.