The New Shikari at our Indian Stations

Chapter I. Sind

! I WONDER what sort of a picture rises before the imaginative eyes of my untravelled readers when they observe the word " Sind " printed in large letters, as I intend it shall be, at the head of this chapter ? Judging from my own conversational experience with even the upper and most educated classes, I should think that their ideas concerning this large and important province would be most adequately depicted by a small chiaro-oscuro representing the densest portion of a London fog. " Where have you got to now, and how do you spell it ? " wrote one of my most valued and fashionable corre spondents on learning that I had gone to Kurachi, which, I must hasten to say, is the seaport and capital of this part of the world. " Kurachi," I replied, " is spelt in seven different ways, vol. II. B and is situated at Messrs. King & Co.'s, Church Lane, Bombay.

Such is my address." This exhaustive information was received by almost every one as equal to a handbook for India. " For what more could any person want to know about such places?" said they. Then some great trouble arises — the railway shares, and other investments yielding a good percentage, are threatened ! And now a frantic desire arises to learn all about "those places," concerning which, in the hurry of the moment, nothing can be discovered with certainty. " Everybody says something different : what am I to believe ? Was ever such a quandary ? " cries the wretched taxpayer in his bewilderment, as he vainly tries to collect his thoughts whilst grasping his purse with one hand and striving to keep off the Chancellor of the Exchequer with the other. Well, such a moment, it must be confessed, is un favourable to the attainment of knowledge.

I therefore unhesitatingly recommend my fifteen millions of superfluous fellow-countrymen who are supported directly or indirectly by our colonies to find out as much as they can about them during quiet times, and from people who are not writing against time merely to meet a paying demand for information caused by some exciting emergency. I believe now there is a certain amount of direct com munication by steam between Kurachi and England ; but, formerly, passengers from the mother country or Aden had to go first to Bombay, and then take another steamer to bring them, at the end of three more days, to their final destination. Such had been my own route when I first entered the chief, if not the only, harbour of this ancient land of the Ameers, as its native rulers were called before they were dethroned by the English and sent by them to dwell in luxurious exile at Belgaum and other Indian Stations.

The Haven is a small one, and is only kept in order by a great expenditure of labour and of money. The sand is so greatly inclined to silt up, as to be a constant source of anxiety to the engineers and to the government that employs them and pays their necessarily large bills. As usual, all those who are not concerned shake their heads over the doings of such as are entrusted with the works. How often have I seen So-and-so shake his head, and heard him exclaim dismally : " Ah well ! if these plans are persisted in, the harbour will soon disappear, and we shall have nothing but a collection of sandhills in its place." And truly, when one closes one's eyes and calls before the imagi nation the gigantic and overwhelming force which has ever its threatening arms held out towards the little haven, we can scarcely wonder if there are times when those who are most interested in its safety may almost feel crushed under the weight of their responsibilities.

The River Indus is the hostile power to which I refer. This mighty stream may be said to possess the whole province like some ubiquitous demon of unrest. Occupying a bed raised above the rest of the country, its waters are for ever filtering and boring under the earth, which is tormented thereby like a body with the itch. The mouths (for it has many) of this river once entered the sea at Kurachi ; whereas now they are to be b — found no less than sixty miles further along the coast beyond Clifton. Here, in the last fifty years only, the current has brought down and deposited sandbanks that have con quered thirty miles from the ocean ! Think of a " wash," on such a scale as this, setting in towards our little cup shaped harbour : it would be like emptying a waggon-load of sand into a teaspoonful of water.

Yet, notwithstanding these melancholy forebodings, this safe little port has retained its efficiency as fully up to this moment as on the day when I first steamed into it some twenty-eight years ago. So, if a favourite but misguided engineer is sometimes allowed to spend a few millions on mistakes, it is evident the right man is called in afterwards to lay out a like sum in putting things to rights ; for not a single sandhill has as yet shown its apex above the surface of those waters, which continue to offer safe accommodation to vessels as numerous and as large as of yore. On your left, as you enter the harbour, rise the Manora Heights, a rocky range crowned with a lighthouse. This sort of bold natural bank must be about three hundred feet high, and forms a large portion of one side of the cup-shaped haven in whose waters it stands.

Looking to the right, the prospect is much less defined; and I really find it difficult, in writing from mere memory, to describe exactly what separates the port from the gradually shelving and receding coast on that side. Mud-flats, and a few precipitous islets called the Oyster Rocks, which rise like little mountains of solid stone out of the sea, here intervene between the spectator and the mainland where Kurachi is built at some four or five miles' distance from the shore. The beach, on this side, terminates in a low and distant projection of sand hills sloping for a long way out to sea. This point is led up to from the city and cantonents by another flat of four miles in length and only just above highwater-mark. It is crossed by a slightly-raised carriage-road ; and on ..the sandhills themselves many bungalows, as well as barracks for invalid soldiers, have been erected, in order that those who require more invigorating breezes than can be got in the camp may here obtain them.

This pleasant sanatorium is called Clifton ; but the time has not come to describe it, for as yet we are but steaming with slackened speed into the harbour, and endeavouring to commit to memory, as well as we can, such salient points as strike the eye. Our channel is marked by buoys, which guide us safely between the Manora ridge and an artificial embankment or groin of rough stones which runs out from the base of the harbour to meet us. This work cuts off the deep and navigable water from the insidious and ever encroaching shallows that lie beyond. To the eye of an enthusiastic landsman like myself, the only true haven seemed to nestle safe, smooth, and comfortable between this long low parapet and the rugged mass of the opposite heights of Manora which run back through shallow water up to the mainland.

On coming to anchor, we proceed in boats to the landing-stages, from which we debark, and find ourselves on the " bunder " (wharf) of Kiamari. Much of the little land there is about here seems to have been reclaimed from the surrounding muddy flats, and there is but limited accommodation for such necessary buildings as are requisite for officers and the huts of the natives who have to live close to the shipping business which supports them and their families. The traveller, therefore, has scarcely time to cast a flurried look around before he is hurried into a hired carriage, which is generally the not uncomfortable ghost of a once-dashing britzska-and-pair, and finds himself rolling pleasantly along a broad and well-constructed causeway of five miles in length leading to Kurachi. This road is built across the mud flats, which at high-tide are covered with water ; consequently, on either hand there is nothing but a waste of sludge in which the spoonbills and flamingos wade when the sea has ebbed.

The excitement of sight-seeing is for the present restricted to watching the long files of native carts, called hackeries, which, whether loaded with bales of cotton or empty as the case may be, are ever thronging the route. These vehicles are drawn by bullocks, who are urged by the ceaseless vociferations and violent gesticulations of their drivers to put their best legs foremost. The " rules of the road " are prescribed and acted upon by the oxen themselves on principles which even their masters seem incapable of quite fathoming. Many are the collisions and stoppages — almost amounting to riots ; but the bovine mind generally triumphs at last, so that free circula tion is only momentarily interrupted. After pursuing this causeway for two or three miles, buildings — such as cotton mills, custom-houses, and the railway-station — begin to appear on either hand ; and then Kurachi the flat and, I must say, the ugly is reached at last.

Owing to the long stretch of swampy, low ground that had to be traversed on leaving the coastline, the sea is no where visible from any part of this large settlement, which thus derives no pictorial charms from the near presence of the ocean. As far as scenic effect is concerned, the great plain on which our habitations have sprung up might be situated in the midst of an inland desert. One of the first buildings you come to is the very one where I should advise you to stop ; it is situated on the left hand side of the road, and is the well-known " Travellers' Bungalow." It is the best I ever met with in India, and for simplicity, comfort, and cheapness far surpasses the hotels which have sprung up in modern times and are of the usual pattern. In theory, all houses of this description throughout the length and breadth of the land offer the same stereotyped advantages to those using them ; but, as this is very far from being the case practically, I intend, for the guidance of such as may be contemplating an up-country tour, to intersperse my description of this hostelry with a few contrasting remarks about others in more remote districts.

" The Dak Bungalow " — who has not heard of this feature of our Indian Empire ? Who that has travelled much in the East can hear the name uttered and not feel moved by many reminiscences — some sweet, others bitter ? For enemies, friends, lovers, all meet here in the course of their wanderings. Moments often pass in a travellers' bungalow the memory of which can only be effaced by death itself However, it must be confessed that romantic episodes, whether of the delightful or the tragic sort, are more to be expected at the little up-country bungalow nestled among the trees and where the accommodation consists of but two rooms, rather than in the comparatively-imposing structure that we are just now thinking of entering. The former, in addition to its smallness, is often the only shelter that can be obtained within forty miles or more ; so, if rival parties claim its hospitality at the same time, they must perforce live together as one family for twenty-four hours at least.

The Kurachi Bungalow stands in a large square " compound," and is, like all the rest of its tribe, the property of Government, by whom, also, all its affairs are superintended on a " regulation " plan. On your right, as you enter, stands a long low building, which is really nothing more than twelve ordinary dak bungalows all built in a row and included under one roof without any upper story. The dozen doors all open into one long shady verandah faced with a bamboo trellis-work. Each set consists of two rooms with a tiny courtyard behind ; and a covered passage leads across this miniature enclosure to the bathroom. At the back of this, again, is a spacious range of stables, with numerous outhouses for servants ; so that you can keep an eye on all your dogs and horses, and feel thoroughly at home.

In front of the main building, in one corner of the compound, stands a small detached and single bungalow ; but I was never fortunate enough to find this little hermitage vacant. This caravanserai is, as the reader may suppose, supplied with all the conveniences which, in other and wilder districts, are apt to be curtailed in proportion to the rarity of visitors. Here there is a mess-man who furnishes meals, together with wines, on a tariff which emanates, I must say rather indirectly, from the Governor-General ; so everything ought to be of the best. One rupee (one shilling and ten pence) is the daily charge per head for rent, and if you have your own servants you can claim to supply your own table. In the Mofussil, though the charge is the same, there is often nothing but a wild sort of caretaker, in the little tenement, who keeps the place clean and looks after the furniture, which consists of two chairs, one table, a washing-stand, and a bedstead without bedding.

This is all that a paternal Government feels it incumbent upon them to keep up for a few chance wayfarers. During the rains, these habitations are often very lone some ; but, as there is nothing to tempt the cupidity of robbers, wild beasts are the only enemies the custodian has to fear. I myself know an officer who woke up one night, at such a place as I have described, and saw a large hyæna in his room ; it overturned the table, with the nightlight on it, as it fled. I have also personally occupied one of these bungalows in the garden of which a tiger had more than once been seen. The following story is also, I believe, true, though I did not hear it from the man himself who is the hero of the tale : — As Succaram, the puttewalla or man in charge of one of these bungalows situated in a wild district, was returning home late one night to sleep in his accustomed outhouse adjoining the main building, he saw, by the light of the moon, a very large pariah-dog squatting on its hams in the middle of the open compound.

As he gained the entrance to his room and took a final glance at the animal, there was OUR INDIAN SIATIONS. 10 something so aggressive in its motionless attitude that he threw a stone at it. In a moment the infuriated beast came flying towards him, and, with loud roars, proclaimed itself a large and fierce panther. To whisk in and slam the door in the animal's face was, fortunately, a movement which Succaram was able to execute as quick as thought. It was time ; for the beast wras in earnest, and so determined to quench his rage in the blood of the puttewalla that he flew at the small sidewindow and tried to tear out the two bars that opposed his ingress. As it clutched and shook at this fragile framework, Succaram grasped the little hatchet which all natives possess and can use so well, and with this weapon rained many dexterous and telling blows on the paws of the assailant before it would relinquish its attack.

At last, however, it was obliged to do so, and to retire worsted to the thickets whence it had come. The morning light revealed the severity of the contest, for its retreating footsteps were all clotted with blood. This is only one of many instances of a panther charging without being wounded, and, had the window-bars been less solid, there can be no doubt Succaram would have lost his life in that midnight struggle. The above story, I think, tends to prove that startling reticontres sometimes take place at travellers' bungalows. At Kurachi, however, there are no wild beasts except jackals, which carry off poultry and make the night hideous with their yells. Our adventures, therefore, in this place are confined to unexpected and sudden meetings with the man to whom we sold an unsound horse some time ago, or the young lady who refused the offer of our heart and hand after flirting with us up at Simla till everybody said it was disgraceful.

"I have had a lucky escape," says the rejected one, fiercely, " but still it is awkward they should be spending their honeymoon in the next room to me, and I do not like hearing my name sounding through these thin walls a dozen times in the course of the day. I shall pack up and go to one of the hotels at once." And we may as well go with him, having ourselves had quite enough of the travellers' bungalow by this time. But we will not go direct to the newly-chosen inn, there to imbibe a fabulous number of pegs, such being the privilege accorded only to the lovelorn. A "peg," I must explain to my readers, means a tumbler full of brandy and sodawater, and is so called because each draught is supposed to represent a peg in your coffin. We, therefore, who are not only quite heart-whole but are even in exuberant spirits through having just purchased a greyhound of extraordinary promise, will take a drive round this end of the camp, so as to see what the least fashionable part of it may be like.

To begin with, the roads are long, broad, white, dusty, and everywhere quite flat. No hills are to be seen except quite in the distance, where the usual "rough-and-tumble" mountains inseparable from an Indian landscape may be discerned. As I have already hinted, this part of the camp is the least fashionable ; but I thought it much the most agreeable quarter to live in, as trees would grow here, and a good many, of forest dimensions, were to be seen among the houses and near the roads, which was a great relief to the eye. The Native Infantry lines, with the houses of their European officers, are among the first buildings one encounters on leaving the travellers' bungalow ; and, on bearing round to the left, the outermost bounds of European life are closed by the " Government Gardens," where the military bands of the Sepoy regiments play weekly, of an evening, to a considerable audience, who recline in their carriages and either listen to the music or talk to their friends, according to their tastes.

Not far from the gardens there are very large cattle-yards, bakeries, and other establishments belonging to the commissariat, which, together with the houses of the conductors and other employes, take up a large area of ground ; so that really miles of roadway may be traversed before we wheel round to the right and find ourselves in the Bazaar, as the plain streets of English and Hindoo shops are called that lie between what we may call the European and Native cantonments. This bazaar is extensive and well found with most things that one requires. In it is situated the hotel which so hospitably opened its doors and poured out its libations for the refreshment and invigoration of our dejected friend lately alluded to. But I cannot describe his life in this enviable asylum, for I never myself passed its portals, but remained content with gazing on the outside.

Immediately on getting through this flourishing mart, is the real camp of Kurachi. Large broad roads, crossing each other at right angles and lined on each side with commodious upper storied houses of solid masonry, are what one sees on the first coup d'œil. There are no trees, and the gardens do not make any show. Sind has no rains ; so that nothing can grow without artificial irrigation — except, perhaps, forest-trees, and these only when the soil is of sufficient depth to enable the roots to strike into that water which is ever percolating from the bed of the Indus. But this portion of the cantonments is built upon sheet rock, or soil nearly as hard, in which nothing can grow ; so the houses stand in bleak and formal rows whose advantages and attractiveness must be looked for inside, where much will be found to please.

Outside, everything that is not whitewashed is the colour of dust. In a prominent and central position stands the church, which is quite remark able for its inordinately high tower, so out of proportion to the rest of its dimensions. I believe it was built to this great height with the idea of its serving as a landmark to ships at sea, at a time when the place was in its infancy and the Public Works Department always had to kill as many birds as possible with one stone. Be that as it may, there stands this curious pile of drab bricks, whose summit must be a hundred feet from the ground. I am told that it requires a steady head to mount from the inside on to the roof of this edifice, as the winding staircase is without a balustrade. What, then, must be said of the pluck and athletic prowess of a young friend of mine, Lieutenant Nichols, who not only made the ascent with two or three of our mutual acquaintances, but, when there, performed the following astonishing feat : — The top of the tower terminated in an ordinary crenated battlement.

Now, it occurred to our young hero to mount on to one of the precarious little pinnacles of which such architecture is composed, and then to hop, on one leg, from one to the other, till he had completed the circuit of the building, when he jumped safely down amongst his companions, who had been scarcely able to look on at this really amazing performance. I hope the reader will not forget this young man, as I shall have another and still more picturesque anecdote to relate concerning him, a few pages further on ; but for the present we must leave him and his friends to enjoy the view and get back to the earth beneath them as best they can. I should think this main portion of the camp might be stated, at a guess, to consist of an irregular and much-broken square, each side of which might be from a mile to a mile and a half in length.

This includes the ranges of barracks for the European soldiers and a considerable number of other public buildings, such as Government House, libraries, clubs, and lawn-tennis-grounds. Here also stands the Frere Hall, a modern erection built in a sort of Moorish style and possessing a fine, ballroom with a floor of polished teak wood. Beyond this, again, is the camp railway-station, which, like the Government Gardens on the other side, marks the confines of civilisation in this direction. From what I have said, it will be seen that Kurachi is a very large place. From the Kiamari Bunder where we landed, round the Native Infantry camp, through the Bazaar, and finally the circuit of the European cantonments, would be a fine day's march for a good professional walker, without going to Clifton — which I have already referred to, on looking at it from the sea.

If you want to get to this place by land, you must continue past the church and the Frere Hall till you come to where the road crosses the railway, which pursues its raised course over a swampy flat and seems, as I have already said, to rule a rigid line between civilisation and absolute nothingness. But a carriage-road, well-kept, slightly raised, and bridged where required, seems to say to the enter prising traveller : " Advance and fear not, for there is a beyond." Let us accept this invitation, and see, as we go along, if we cannot observe many objects of interest which escape the eyes of those who are either above or below common things. At first, one isconscious of nothing but a waste of sand on either hand, and the excursionist is tempted to exclaim : " Here is nothing — absolutely nothing !

I shall close my eyes and go to sleep ! " But, before carrying this fatal resolution into practice, he looks to his right and observes a small, low. black hill rising like an island out of the sand, and not more than three hundred yards from the road. As he gazes on this natural feature, which is end on towards him, it gradually lengthens out till it becomes quite a little range of hills and valleys suggestive of jackals, foxes, and even deer in the early morning. And this promise of sport is not fallacious, as will be seen when I come to treat of the shikar to be met with in the neighbourhood. The sea, from this part of the road, if anywhere visible, is too indistinct to be noticeable ; but we have plenty of evidence that it is not far off, for, in addition to the briny scent of the breeze, the road has constantly to be bridged across swampy and brackish streams of some feet in width, which, if not dealt with by the engineers, would form im passable obstacles to a nice carriage, though a native bullock hackery might flounder through them.

Such watercourses are mixed with tracts of the leafy and bright-green man grove-bushes, of greater or less extent, which form a good refuge for the jackals when pressed by the hunters, for they can scud over a rotten surface which would speedily engulf a horse. Having noticed these little matters on your right hand and remarked what seems to be rising ground terminating in jagged peaks on your left, you soon become conscious of bold and high sandhills in front of you. The white bungalows, with their thatched or flat roofs, which speedily become visible on these slopes proclaim that you are approaching Clifton — thus christened, I should imagine, by some spiteful person bent on misleading the unwary. Imagine a Parisian 'belle consulting her milliner as to what costumes she should take to spend a happy month at this fashionable seaside resort !

Not that I would give a bad character to this sanatorium from whose rounded peaks you look down on the often-longed-for ocean at your feet. But, to enjoy and appreciate the place, you must have been nearly grilled to death in the inland portions of the province. I admit that the appellation of Clifton is somewhat more appropriate to this life-giving little promontory than Babylon would have been ; but names should be invented to distinguish, and not borrowed as if to confuse. Had I been called upon to act as godfather at the foundation of the colony, I would have coined some such title as Sanderella, which, if not a pretty name, would have been at least unique, and also suggestive of those sweet dreams, which you may expect to visit you here, of those far-distant beings and places whom you have loved perhaps better than life itself.

Alas ! however, to young ladies belongs exclusively the privilege of changing their names. Dogs are proverbially doomed even to be hanged under their original cognomens ; and men and places are but little better off in this respect. What hope can there be for Clifton, then, that it will ever be known by a more suitable designation ? With such a solemn question as this to solve, we cannot be expected to take any further notice of extraneous objects ; so we had better at once begin driving back to camp, and gradually turn our minds to dinner. Plenty of well flavoured oysters, delicious fish, and iced champagne will all be served at that excellent club near the church, to which, of course, "everybody" belongs. With such a pro spect before me, I ask myself: "What frame of mind could I have been in to think that it mattered one iota whether Clifton were called Jerusalem or Birmingham ?

" As I sit by-and-by and enjoy those delicacies which are not to be obtained " up country," I say to myself decisively : " No, there is nothing in a name." Before touching on the question of the sport to be obtained at this Station, I think it advisable to comment on a few more points that must be more or less interesting to every person connected with the place, or who may have friends and relations likely to go there. Even the most enthusiastic " shikari " wishes sometimes to visit the haunts of men and to enjoy an occasional escape from the heats and hardships of the jungle. vol. 11. c The climate is, of course, the chief consideration ; and that of Kurachi is, I think, taken for all in all, the best in India, whilst that of the rest of Sind is undoubtedly the worst. Though we are, here, just out of the tropics, this place does not owe its healthful and pleasant conditions to that circumstance ; for, the further one goes north, the more terrifically does the heat rage during some eight or nine months in the year.