Chapter 5

ABBOTABAD TO SRINAGAR

Dismal tidings came in of floods and storms on the Hassan 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 dâk 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.

Being pressed for time, we only had a cup of cocoa, and then hastened on our dismal career.

The road grew steeper, winding over some low hills, but we could not see very much, as the whirling cloud masses blotted out all the view. By-and-by it bent towards a pine-clad hill, and began to ascend steeply. By this time we were very wet, as we had to walk up the hills to ease the horses. The scene was extraordinary, as the great thunder-clouds boiled up and over us—tawny yellow, and even orange in the lights, and dull and solid lead colour in the depths. The distance was invisible, but gleams now and again revealed, through the drifts of rain, wide stretches of cultivated land lying below us, and a ragged forest of pines piercing the mist above.

Dripping, we walked by our wet horses up to the top of the pass, hoping for a swift and easy descent on the farther side to Ghari Habibullah, where we intended to sleep, as we had given up all idea of being able to get on to Domel.

Presently the horses were pulled up sharply as a ton or two of rock and earth came crashing upon the road in front of us.

More fallen masses encumbering the way farther on made us feel rather anxious, until, on rounding a corner, we found the whole road barred by a huge mass of rock and soil.

It was blowing hard, the stormy wind striking chill and bleak through the bending pines; it was raining in torrents; it was 5 P.M., and we were still some six miles from the haven where we would be; so, after a short and utterly ineffectual attempt to get the carriage past the obstacle, Jane and I set off to walk down the hill and seek help.

It was exciting, as we had to dodge the rock-falls and run past the shaky-looking places! At a turn of the road we came upon the gunners’ tonga, embedded in a mud-slide. The occupants had had an escape from total wreck, as one of the ponies had swerved over the khud, but the other saved the situation by lying down in the mud! Hunt had gone off into the landscape to try for a village and help, while Hill remained to wrestle with the tonga, which, however, remained obstinately immovable. We could do nothing to mend matters, so we fled on, meeting Hunt, with a few natives and a shovel, on his way back to the scene of action.

After an hour and a half of very anxious work, we emerged at dusk from the wood, hoping our troubles were over. We could dimly see, and hear, through the mist a stream below us; but, alas! no bridge was visible. I commandeered a man from the first hut we came to, and tried by signs to make him understand that he was to carry the lady across the river; but, luckily, just as we reached the bank of what was a very nasty-looking stream in full spate, the liberated tonga overtook us, and Jane was bundled into it, while we three men waded. The stream was strong and up to our knees, and level with the tonga floor, and the horses getting frightened began to jib. Hill seized one by the head, and Jane was safely drawn to shore and sent on her way under guidance of the driver, while we tramped on in the dark until a second torrent barred our way. Here, in the gloom, we made out the tonga empty, and stuck fast against the far bank. It was all right though, for Jane had crawled out at the front and wandered on in search of the dâk bungalow, leaving the driver squatting helplessly beside the water.

It was so dark that she missed the bungalow, which stands a little above the road, and struggled on till she came to a small cluster of native huts. One of the inhabitants, on being boldly accosted, was good enough to point out the way, and so the re-united party—tired, wet, and with no prospect of dry clothing—took possession of the cheerless-looking dâk bungalow. Things now began to improve. To our joy we found our ekkas with their contents drawn up in the yard. And while a fire was being encouraged into a blaze, and the lean fowl was being captured and slain on the back premises, we obtained dry garments—of sorts—from the baggage.

Madame’s dinner costume consisted of a blue flannel garment—nocturnal by design—delicately covered by a quilted dressing-gown, and the rest of us were _en suite_, a great lack of detail as to collars and foot-wear being apparent! Nevertheless, the fire blazed royally, and we ate up all the old hen and called for more, and prepared to make a night of it until, about ten o’clock, our bearer Sabz Ali appeared, with a train of coolies carrying our bedding and the other contents of the derelict carriage.

This morning the two young gunners departed on foot, leaving their tonga, as the road to Domel is reported to be quite impassable. They intend to walk by a short cut over the hills, and get on as best they may, the race for Astor being a keen one.

We decided to remain here, the weather being still gloomy and unsettled, and the road being impossible for a lady.

At noon the landau was brought in, minus a step and very dirty, but otherwise “unwounded from the dreadful close.”

Ghari Habibullah is not at all a cheerful spot, as it appears, the centre of a grey haze, with dense mist low down on the surrounding mountains. Sabz Ali, too, complains of fever, which is not surprising after the wetting and exposure of yesterday; and when a native gets “fever” he curls up and is fit for nothing, and won’t try.

The dâk bungalow stands on a little plateau overlooking the road and a swift river, whose tawny waves were loaded with mud washed from the hills by recent storms. On a slope opposite, the queer, flat-roofed native village perched, and above it swirled a misty pall which hid all but the bases of the hills. To this village we strolled, but it was not interesting; the inhabitants did not seem wildly friendly, and the mud and dirt and dogs were discouraging. So we roamed along the Domel road till we came to a high cliff of conglomerate, which had recently been shedding boulders over the track to an alarming extent; so, deciding that it would be merely silly to risk getting our heads cracked, we turned back, and, re-crossing the river, clambered up a steep path above the right bank. Here we soon found great rents and rifts where falling rocks had come bounding down the steeps from above, so once more we turned tail, and, giving up the idea of any more country walks in that region, betook ourselves to the gloomy and chilly bungalow. The only really delightful things we saw during our doleful excursion were a lovely clump of big, rose-coloured primula, drooping from the clefts of a steep rock, and a pair of large and handsome kingfishers,[1] pursuing their graceful avocations by a roadside pool—their white breasts, ruddy flanks, and gleaming blue backs giving a welcome note of colour to the sedate and misty grey of the landscape.

[1] _N. Smyrnensis_ (?).

_Tuesday, April_ 4.—Thirty-six hours of Ghari Habibullah give ample time for the loneliest recluse to pant for the bustle of a livelier world. We were so bored on Thursday that we determined to push on, _coûte que coûte_, on Friday morning, although a note sent back by one of the gunners from Domel, by a coolie, informed us that the road about a mile short of that place was completely blocked by a fallen mass of some hundreds of tons.

Our henchman having somewhat recovered of his fever, thanks to a generous exhibition of quinine, we gave the order to pack and start, hoping to achieve the twelve miles which separated us from Domel, even though the last bit had to be done on foot. About two miles from Ghari Habibullah we came to the Kashmir custom-house, presided over by a polite gentleman, whose brilliant purple beard was a joy to look upon.

Most of the elderly natives dye their beards with, I think, henna, producing a fine orange effect, but purple…!

_Bottom_. What beard were I best to play it in?

_Quince_. Why, what you will.

_Bottom_. I will discharge it in either your straw-coloured beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow

_Midsummer Night’s Dream_,