The other bridges were all easier than the first, and we shot them gaily, spending the rest of the day in floating quietly down the river, and finally anchoring—­or rather mooring, for anchors are, like boat-hooks, masts, sails, rudders, and rigging, alike unknown to the “jollye mariners” of the Jhelum—­some two or three miles above the entrance to the dreaded Wular Lake.

This awful stretch of water, so feared by the Kashmiri that his eyes goggle when he even thinks of it, is an innocent enough looking lake, generally occupied in reflectively reproducing its surroundings upside down, but occasionally its calm surface is ruffled by a little breeze, and it is reported that wild and horrible squalls sweep down the nullahs of Haramok at times, and destroy the unwary.  These squalls are said to be most frequent in the afternoons, and are probably the accompaniments of the thunderstorms.

It is only considered possible to cross the Wular between dawn and 10 or 11 A.M., and no persuasion will prevail upon a native boatman to risk his life on the lake after lunch.

Before turning in, I gave orders that a start should be made next morning at five o’clock, but a heavy squall of rain and thunder during the night had the effect of causing orders to be set at naught, and at breakfast-time there was no sign of “up anchor” nor even of “heaving short.”  An interview with the Admiral showed me that the Wular, in his opinion, was too dangerous to cross to-day—­in fact he wouldn’t dream of asking coolies to risk it.  He was given to understand that we intended to cross, and that the sooner he started the safer it would be.

No coolies being forthcoming, I inhumanly gave orders to get under way—­the available crew consisting of the wicked Satarah, the first lieutenant, and the Lady Jiggry.  Sulkily and slowly we wended our way past the wide flats which border the Wular, all blazing golden with mustard in full pungent flower.

Before entering the lake the Admiral meekly requested to be allowed to try for coolies in a small village near by.  He was allowed quarter of an hour for pressgang work, and sure enough he came back within a very reasonable time with a few spare hands, and then—­paddling and poling for dear life—­we glided swiftly through the tangled lily-pads and the green rosettes of the Singhara, and soon were in medias res and fairly committed to the deep.

The Wular lay like a burnished mirror, reflecting the buttresses of Haramok on our right, and the snowy ranges by the Tragbal ahead, its silvery surface lined here and there with the wavering tracks of other boats, or broken by bristling clumps of reeds and tall water-plants.  Our transit was perfectly peaceful, and by lunch-time we were safely tied up to a bank, purple with irises, just below Bandipur.

A visit to the post-office and a stroll up the rocky hill behind it, where we sat for some time and watched a pair of jackals sneaking about, completed a peaceful afternoon.