a plain of dried mud, dull grey, with scarcely a tinge of yellow in places; all round the horizon softly undulating hills which looked transparent, here a tender blue, there delicately pink, in flower-like hues. one of them, rising above all the eastern chain, might be a fortress, its towers alone left standing amid the general wreck. to the west the highest summits were lost in the blue of the sky, identically the same, but that the peaks were faintly outlined with a delicate line of snow.
as we reached bunnoo green cornfields extended as far as the eye could see, under mulberry trees just unfolding their leaves. numberless channels of water irrigated the land; the bed of the kurrum[pg 275] alone, quite white, was flecked here and there with blue pools, and was presently lost in the rosy distance of the hills on the afghan frontier.
the natives here were an even finer race than those at peshawur, and more uncultured, never bowing when we met them, but eyeing us as we passed as if they were meditating some foul blow.
and in the evening at mess—a dinner given in honour of a regiment marching through—news was brought in that close to bunnoo, in the kurrum valley, two travellers had been murdered in the night.
the dinner-table was covered with flowers—maréchal niel and gloire de dijon roses—but enormous, as big as saucers, and of such a texture, such a colour! a tissue of frost and light; and round the table, which was loaded with silver plate, were grey and red uniforms. strains of music were wafted in through the open windows from the regimental band playing slow waltz-tunes a little way off.
as soon as dessert was removed two lieutenants got up, and seizing a couple of drums played away with all their might, while some other officers, under the pretext of dancing a highland fling, cut the most amazing capers. when the band had left[pg 276] the fun went on to the sound of the banjo, lasting late into the cool night, all in the highest spirits.
when i went away home to the fort, where i was living with my friend lieutenant f——, the sentinel's challenge, the tall grey walls casting sharp shadows on the courtyard silvered with moonlight, and another sentry's cry; and still, in contrast with the cheerful evening, i could remember nothing but the tonga post-horse—a thing so frequent in this land of fanatics, so common that no one gives it more than a passing thought.
before daybreak, before the réveillée, the moollah's prayer roused the sikhs, of which two regiments were quartered in the fort; and till it was broad daylight, till the sun had chased away shadows and sadness, i still felt the melancholy, the twilight sense of uneasiness left by that slow and plaintive chant.
in the afternoon the soldiers tilted on horseback, four on a side. they tried to unhorse each other; two or three would attack one, succeeding at last in rolling him off under his charger, while they in their turn were attacked by others, ending in a mêlée, where the victors and the vanquished left fragments of their thin shirts.
then there were races of baggage-mules, and competitions of speed in harnessing horses and in striking the tents. finally the english officers rode a race, and then the prizes were distributed—money to the men and blue pugarees with gold thread to the native officers.
in the middle of the course was a stand, and there, with the officers and civil functionaries, were four english ladies who had accompanied their husbands to this remote station. they thought of their dress and took care of their babies, living among these sikhs whom the native priests are perpetually inciting to rebellion, and seeming to have not the least fear of danger.
when the road was made through bunnoo a pile of stones was heaped up in the middle of the village. the moslems finally persuaded themselves that this was a saint's grave; and they come hither to perform their devotions, planting round it bamboo flagstaffs with pennons, and adding to the mound the stones they piously bring to it day by day.
the heat to-day has suddenly become stifling; the low clouds veil the colourless sun, and the flowers, which yesterday were still lovely, are now[pg 278] withered and pallid, and only give out their scent in the evening, when it is cool again.
two more murders; one a squalid business with no motive—a man killed as he was on his way to gather his rice-harvest. sixteen hill-men attacked him at once, riddling the body with bullets.
the other victim, the night watchman of a neighbouring village, was suspected of treachery towards the hill-tribes in a recent skirmish. one ball through the head had killed him, and his arms had been cut off.
at the polo-match in the evening the band played, and three ladies were present; in sign of the spring having come, a basket was hung to the branch of a tree, full of straw kept constantly wet by the coolies, and containing sundry bottles of soda-water.
next day was kept as the spring festival. every man had a rose stuck into his turban, and a shirt embroidered in gold on the shoulders and breast. the women appeared in stiff and gaudy veil cloths, bedizened with trumpery jewellery. everybody was gay; a little excited towards evening by arrack, and dancing, and singing to the eternal tom-toms. even the fiercest men from the hills, with black[pg 279] turbans and enormously full calico trousers that once were white, and shirts embroidered in bright silks, had set aside their ferocious looks and stuck roses in their pugarees, smiling at those they met.
at mess there were two newly-arrived officers, come from tochi; they had been attacked on the road in the night by sixteen men. the driver and the horse were killed; they themselves had not a scratch, and they told the story very much at their ease, relating the comic features of the incident—how a bullet had lodged itself in a pot hanging to a mule's pack, and the frightened creature had kicked "like mad."
after sunset, in every garden, on every hedge, wherever there had been a scrap of shade during the afternoon, there was a perfect burst of flowers, opening in the cooler air and scenting the night. round one bungalow the rose trees, overloaded with flowers, hardly had a leaf, and in the grass, violet and lavender larkspurs grew as tall as maize plants. yellow stars gleamed in the tangle of creepers over the verandahs, and on a tree that looked as if it were dead blossoms glistened in the moonlight like polished steel.
in the plain the sowars were performing an[pg 280] indian fantasia. charging at a gallop, their wide sleeves flying behind them, they swept past like a whirlwind, aiming with their lances at a peg of wood stuck into the ground. whenever it was speared there were frantic shouts and applause from a crowd of spectators, packed in the best places. in a cloud of dust, growing steadily thicker and hanging motionless over the riders, the performance went on, its centre always this same peg of wood, replaced again and again, exciting the enthusiasm of connoisseurs till the last ray of light died away.
the natives, to keep their money safe—it is always in coin, never in paper, which is not much trusted in these parts—either bury it or have it wrought into trinkets, worn by the women and children. quite little ones of five or six, and perfectly naked, have round their neck sometimes three or four strings of gold pieces, or pierced silver rods as thick as a finger—and then one evening the child does not come home, and in some dark corner the poor little body is found bleeding, the jewels gone.
a sikh, an old soldier, not long since bought a few acres of land; to pay for it he produced 800[pg 281] rupees in silver, and on his wives, whom he brought with him, were 3000 rupees' worth of jewels.
a little study of manners, as related to me by my neighbour at dinner:—
a native judge is sitting cross-legged on a little mat in his house. a petitioner appears of the lowest caste, a sudra. the judge, quite motionless, watches the man unfasten his sandals, rush up to him, and with a profound bow touch his feet in sign of submission. for a man of higher caste, a vaysiya, the ceremonial is the same, only instead of running forward the visitor walks up to the judge and merely pretends to touch his slippers. then comes a kshatriya advancing very slowly; the judge rises to meet him half-way, and they both bow.
in the case of a brahmin it is the judge who hurries to the threshold, and affects to touch the priest's feet.
colonel c—— went out shooting wild duck on a pool close to bunnoo with a native, whose horse, led by a servant, came after them. but when they came to the native gentleman's village he mounted, and returned the civility of the salaaming people, who till then had avoided recognizing him, [pg 282]regarding the fact that a kshatriya had come on foot as sufficient evidence that he wished to pass incognito. then, when they were out of the village, the native gentleman dismounted and walked on with the colonel.
when a sikh is beaten and surrenders he takes off his turban and lays it at the conqueror's feet, to convey that with the turban he also offers his head.
when a native comes to ask a favour he brings a few rupees in his hand, and the patron must take them and hold them a few minutes. a retired sikh trooper had come to see his son, now a soldier in the regiment, and met the colonel, who asked him whether he could do anything for him, to which the other replied:
"can you suppose i should have insulted you by coming here without asking you some favour?"
the want of foresight in the people here is amazing. a servant earning five rupees a month got his son married, a child of fifteen, and for this event he bought fireworks on credit, and at enormous interest, which would cost him three years' wages.
"how do you expect to pay?" asked his master, an officer.
"i shall pay as much as i can myself, and by-and-by my son will earn money, and we shall pay between us."
the highest peak of the chain that overlooks bunnoo looks like the ruins of a fortress. a legend, which must have had its origin at some time when a man-eating tiger lurked in the neighbourhood, relates that it is the lair of a ferocious ogre always on the look-out for prey. nothing on earth would induce any of the natives to go up the mountain; nay, for a long distance even the plain is not too safe.
all the men carry fighting quails in little cages made of a net stretched over a wooden tray and cone-shaped at top. towards evening, in the shade of the houses, at the street corners, in the courtyards—everywhere, there is a group betting on the chances of a fight. the birds taken out of the cages at first turn slowly round each other, their beaks close together. then a spring, a flutter of wings and flying feathers; the quails strike and peck, aiming at the head, and then suddenly they seem quite indifferent and turn round and round again, picking up grain from the ground. when a[pg 284] bird is killed at the end of a battle, its eyes blinded and its breast torn open, it is considered a fine, a noble spectacle, and amateurs will talk of it for a long time. as a rule, after a few rounds one of the birds tries to get away. then its owner pricks its neck with a knife, and the gasping creature dies slowly in the dust, the blood oozing drop by drop.
a very good quail that is often the victor, is worth eight or ten rupees. at a funeral a day or two since one of the bearers had his quail in a cage hanging from his girdle—a champion bird he would not part from.
a man in the fort always struck out the hours on a gong, very slowly, in the heat of the day. twelve at noon was interminable—one, two, three were so feeble as to be scarcely audible. and then when it was cooler and the tom-toms could be heard in the distance, the strokes had a queer dislocated rhythm, and sometimes even a stroke too many, smothered in a hurried roll.
the sweepers, the saises, the bearers, the whole tribe of noisy, idle servants—men, women, and children—all sleep out of doors in the hotter weather. and all day long the camp-bed, the two mats, and half a dozen pots, which constitute the[pg 285] whole furniture of a family, move round the house with the shade, only settling down after dark.
the moon at night shed an intense light, warm and golden. there was scarcely any shadow, and in the quivering atmosphere the flowers poured out their perfume on the cooler air. frogs croaked a basso continuo to cries of night birds, and a sort of roar, very loud but very distant, almost drowned the concert in the fort close by.
white clouds grew opalescent against the deep, infinite, blue-velvet sky, and their edges next the moon were fringed with silver. the stars, of a luminous pale green like aqua marine, seemed dead and had no twinkle.
then, another day, the air was leaden, too heavy to breathe. the mountains of the gem-like hues had lost their glory; they were of one flat tone of dusky grey, and further away were lost to view, invisible in the dead monotony of the colourless sky. the silence was oppressive; there was not a bird in the air, and a strange uneasiness scared the beasts, all seeking a shady refuge.
music in the evening, in the gardens which surround the library, the chapel, and the tennis[pg 286] courts. the ladies' dresses and the uniforms were lustrous in the moonlight. first we had the regimental band, and then songs to a banjo accompaniment; and all about us in the tall trees, the minahs and parrots shrieking as if it were broad daylight, finished the concert by themselves. a huge creeper, swaying between two branches, hung like a curtain of yellow flowers embroidered, as it seemed, on the airy tangle of leaves.
gauze and muslin dresses moved gracefully about against the background of bamboos and roses. light footsteps scarcely bent the grass; the ripple of talk, with its sprinkling of indian words, was sweet and musical. fireflies whirled above the plants making little tendrils of light; there was dreaminess in the air—an anticipation of fairyland to which the music seemed the prelude.
and to and fro on the ramparts, the sentry, in an uniform of the same hue as the sun-baked bricks, paced his beat, invisible but for a needle of light on his fixed bayonet; till when crossing a patch of light he was seen like an apparition, lost again in the shadow of the wall.
