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Title: My three years in Manipur
and escape from the recent mutiny
Author: Ethel St. Clair Grimwood
Release date: September 25, 2023 [eBook #71726]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Richard Bentley and son, 1891
Credits: Peter Becker and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY THREE YEARS IN MANIPUR ***
MY THREE YEARS IN MANIPUR
AND
Escape from the Recent Mutiny
THIRD EDITION
[Illustration: MRS. ST. CLAIR GRIMWOOD.
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY VANDYK.
LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, 1891]
MY
THREE YEARS IN MANIPUR
AND
Escape from the Recent Mutiny
BY
ETHEL ST. CLAIR GRIMWOOD
[Illustration]
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND PLAN_
LONDON
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1891
[_All rights reserved_]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PORTRAIT OF MRS. GRIMWOOD _frontispiece_
BEAR FROM NAGA HILLS _title-page_
DRAGON IN FRONT OF THE PALACE _to face page_ 1
VIEW OF THE RESIDENCY AT MANIPUR ” 30
TRIBESMEN OF MANIPUR ” 68
THE GARDENS OF THE RESIDENCY AT MANIPUR ” 118
NATIVES OF THE MANIPUR HILLS ” 186
SKETCH MAP OF MANIPUR ” 204
PORTRAIT OF MR. FRANK GRIMWOOD ” 217
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
My husband offered the post of Political Agent at
Manipur—Arrival there and first impressions—Adventures on the
journey—Coolies—Arrive at Cachar 1-10
CHAPTER II.
Cachar or Silchar—We are fêted there—The hill tribes: Kukis,
Tongkhuls, etc.—Their dress and habits—Rest-houses, and
difficulties therein—Manipuri Sepoys: camp on the Makru
River—Logtak Lake—Colonel Samoo Singh—The Senaputti 11-28
CHAPTER III.
Favourable impressions of our new home, the Residency—The
Maharajah—His brother the Jubraj—Polo with the Princes—The
Senaputti a fine sportsman—Visits us on Sunday
afternoons—Shell-firing—Prince Zillah Singh—We try to learn the
Manipuri language 29-43
CHAPTER IV.
Collect various animals around us—Habits of our pets—Our
beautiful grounds—The Nagas—Amusing incident—The liquor
Zu—Roast dog—Villages allotted to us for food, labour,
etc.—Women do the work—Children of the Maharajah—A
water-party—Every child dances in Manipur—The Manipuri women
not shut up 44-59
CHAPTER V.
Trips to the Logtak Lake—Beautiful scene on the lake—Tent
pitched on an island in it—The Pucca Senna accompanies
us—Crowds collect to see us—Old women dance—Natives laugh at my
riding-habit—Moombi—Steep ascent—Chief of the village threatens
us—Unpleasant quarters—Wet condition and hostile reception—My
husband teaches the Prince English 60-74
CHAPTER VI.
Society at Manipur—Band of the Ghoorkas—The bandmaster—His
peculiar attire—The regiment ordered away, to our
regret—Worse news—We are ordered to leave—Parting views—Mr.
Heath appointed—Son of the Tongal general—His good and bad
qualities—Magnificent scenery—The Ungamis—Their quarrelsome
character 75-92
CHAPTER VII.
Short stay at Jorehat—My husband appointed to Gauhati—Value
of the bearer in India—His notions and mine not always
in harmony—Arrive at Gauhati—Illness and death of Mr.
Heath—Presentiments—My husband returns to Manipur—I remain at
Shillong—Delicious climate 93-103
CHAPTER VIII.
A terrible experience—A Thoppa and a journey in one—Its
difficulties and dangers—The Lushais—Arrive at Sylhet—Find the
coolies have levanted—A pony journey ends disastrously—A night
walk—Accident to Mr. A⸺.—Arrive at a teahouse—Not a shadowy
dinner 104-117
CHAPTER IX.
Return to Manipur—Mr. Heath’s grave—Old Moonia—A quarrel and
fight between Moonia and the Chupprassie’s wife—Dignity of the
Chupprassies—The Senaputti gets up sports—Manipuri greetings
and sports 118-129
CHAPTER X.
Bad relations between the Pucca Senna and the Senaputti—Rival
lovers—Quarrels in the Royal Family—Prince Angao Senna—Pigeon
contests—The Manipuris’ fondness for gambling—Departure of the
Ghoorkas—Too much alone 130-138
CHAPTER XI.
The Princes quarrel—Attack on the Maharajah—His retreat—His
cowardice and accusations—The Pucca Senna departs also—Conduct
of the Jubraj 139-148
CHAPTER XII.
Vigour of the new reign—A magic-lantern performance—Conduct
of the bandmaster—First mention of Mr. Quinton—Visit
to Burmah—Beauty of the scenery—House ourselves in a
Pagoda—Burmese love of flowers, and of smoking—Visit
Tummu—Burmese love of chess—First meeting with Grant—He
helps us to make a cake—Search after orchids—Arrival of
visitors—Important telegram from Chief Commissioner—Coming
events commence to cast shadows 149-169
CHAPTER XIII.
Preparations for the Chief Commissioner’s visit—Despair
over the commissariat—Uncertainty of Mr. Quinton’s
intentions—Uneasiness of the Manipuris—They crowd into their
citadel—Decision of the Government of India and their policy
against the Jubraj—Death of our dinner and our goat—Arrival
of Mr. Quinton and Colonel Skene—Mr. Grimwood ordered to
arrest the Jubraj—The Regent and his brother appear at the
Residency—The Manipuris suspect hostility—The old Tongal—Last
evening of peace 170-187
CHAPTER XIV.
Up early on the eventful morning—The Jubraj does not attend
the Durbar—Visit of Mr. Grimwood to the Jubraj—Finds him in
high fever—Matters assume a serious aspect—Thoroughfares
deserted—Terrific thunderstorm—Our servants take French
leave—My ayah deserts—Melancholy thoughts—Lovely moonlight
night—A Manipuri arrives to spy out our doings—The night before
the outbreak—Attack on the Residency—Capture of the Jubraj’s
house—Anxiety about Lieutenant Brackenbury—Stray bullets find
their billet in the Residency—Attack gets hot, and big guns
play on the Residency—We have to take to the cellars—The Regent
invites Mr. Quinton to an interview 188-217
CHAPTER XV.
Mr. Brackenbury—Scenes in the little cellar—Destruction of our
home—Another moonlight night with a difference—Reopening of the
attack on the Residency—Death of Mr. Brackenbury—Preparations
to escape 218-230
CHAPTER XVI.
Escape of the servants—Mr. Gurdon comes for me—Away from
shelter, and one’s life in one’s hands—Over the hedge and
across the river—Lie in the ditch for shelter from shot—Fired
on at Burri Bazaar 231-238
CHAPTER XVII.
Burning of the Residency and of all our effects—Difficulties of
retreat—No food, wet clothes, burning sun—Pursued—Exhaustive
march—Kindness of a Naga boy—Fired on—Sleep after a march
of twenty miles—Have to march again—Capture a Manipuri
with rice—Enemy lurks around us—Come upon a stockade—Are
attacked—Goorkhas in sight 239-261
CHAPTER XVIII.
Saved—Captain Cowley pursues the enemy, and we fall on our
feet—Have to wear Sepoys’ boots—Halt at Leimatak—Transitions
of climate—Manipuris attack—Tables turned on them—Shortness
of food—The Nagas—Cross the Jhiri and regain the British
frontier 262-274
CHAPTER XIX.
Our ignorance as to Mr. Quinton’s proceedings—News at last
reach India and England—Take off my clothes for the first
time for ten days—March to Lahkipur—The ladies of Cachar send
clothes to me—Write home—Great kindness shown to me—My fears
for my husband—The telegram arrives with fatal news—Major
Grant’s narrative 275-315
CHAPTER XX.
Her Majesty gives me the Red Cross—I go to Windsor and see
her Majesty—The Princess of Wales expresses a wish to see
me—Conclusion 316-321
NOTE.
_The two letters written by Major Grant, and quoted on pp. 289 and 309,
appeared originally in the columns of the ‘Times’ newspaper._
[Illustration: DRAGON IN FRONT OF THE PALACE.]
THREE YEARS IN MANIPUR
CHAPTER I.
My husband offered the post of Political Agent at
Manipur—Arrival there and first impressions—Adventures on the
journey—Coolies—Arrive at Cachar.
Manipur! How well I remember the first time I ever heard the name—a name,
too, which was comparatively unknown three short years ago, owing to the
fact that it belongs to a remote little tract of country buried amongst
hills, and difficult of access, far away from civilized India, and out
of the beaten track. This is not a geographical treatise, and therefore
there is no necessity to dwell much on the exact whereabouts of a place
which has already been described more than once. I will therefore attempt
no lengthy description, simply stating that the valley of Manipur lies
between Cachar, the Kubo Valley, and Kohima, and is surrounded by six
ranges of hills which separate it from the tracts of country named. A
pretty place, more beautiful than many of the show-places of the world;
beautiful in its habitable parts, but more beautiful in those tracts
covered with forest jungle where the foot of man seldom treads, and the
stillness of which is only broken by the weird cry of the hooluck[1] or
the scream of a night-bird hunting its prey.
We had not been in India many months when my husband was offered the
post of political agent at Manipur. We were at the time in a very junior
position in Sylhet, a place which had not fascinated either of us in our
short stay there; but as a junior officer my husband could not complain.
When, therefore, we got a letter one morning offering him Manipur, we
were much elated. Visions of the glories heard of, but not seen, floated
in front of both our minds. I pictured to myself the dignity of being
the mistress of a Residency, of possessing servants in scarlet and gold,
with ‘V.R.’ on their buttons, and a guard-of-honour to walk out with me
whenever I chose. I saw visions of a large house and extensive grounds,
and I pictured the ensign of Old England dominating over all. Frank,
likewise, had dreams of polo ponies that played of their own accord every
day of the week, and visions of many tigers only waiting to be shot, and
snipe roosting in the veranda!
Perhaps some may wonder why such dreams should be ours, and why we built
such castles in the air. Once, many years before this time of which I
write, my husband had passed through Manipur on his way to England. He
had spent a couple of days there, and had seen the lake in the compound
covered with wild-duck, which were almost as tame as the familiar bird
associated, as a rule, in our minds with green peas and the spring. He
had played a never-to-be-forgotten game of polo with three royal princes
on a ground worthy of Hurlingham, and he had taken it out of the snipe
one morning. Small wonder that those two days remained in his memory, and
made him long for more like them, when it was his fate to be stationed
in an uncongenial spot, where polo comes like Christmas once a year, and
which even the snipe desert. And small wonder, too, was it that when the
letter came, offering him the coveted post, he jumped at it. How glad we
were, and how we hastened to pack up our belongings and depart to the
land of so much promise!
Nothing bothered us, not even when our kitchen was blown down bodily
in a gale of wind one night, and our new cooking-pans were damaged,
and, worst of all, our highly-valued and excellent cook gave notice to
quit immediately. The latter though, I am glad to say, reconsidered his
decision, and on my promising him extra pay and new cooking-pots, he
kindly condescended to link his fortunes with ours for a further period.
All’s well that ends well, and the extreme sunniness of my temper on that
occasion merited a little reward. A flying visit to Shillong, the hill
station of Assam and head-quarters of the Government of that province,
and a hasty return to Sylhet to bid good-bye to the few Europeans there
and to collect our possessions, occupied our time until the day arrived
which was to see us start on our long journey.
Here in England we consider a journey long that lasts perhaps a day
and a half, or even one whole day; but to anyone who has ever been in
the remote parts of India, and more especially of Assam, a two days’
journey would count as very little. Our journey to Manipur took sixteen
days, and hard travelling into the bargain. Up every morning and in our
saddles soon after six, with a fifteen-mile ride before us—hail, rain,
or sunshine. People in England cannot realize what real hard travelling
means. The whole of your baggage in Assam is carried by coolies. They are
wonderfully strong, and can take very heavy loads—when they please, that
is to say. But a disagreeable coolie can be very disagreeable indeed. We
encountered many such, and the first day on our travels it happened that
we had more than one unruly specimen.
We started in boats late one night after dinner, and slept on the river,
while the boatmen rowed us up stream to a place some twenty miles away,
where our horses were to meet us. It sounds rather pleasant travelling
by boat at night on a broad smooth river, with the moon shining overhead
as only an Indian moon can shine. But the situation loses much of its
romance when you know the style of boat that we travelled in. They are
small, awkwardly-built machines, rather of the Noah’s-ark type, with a
roofing made of bamboo coarsely woven into matting, and so low that it
necessitated crawling in on all fours when you wished to retire for the
night. Any idea of standing upright had to be abandoned. Once in, you had
to lie down and shuffle off your clothes, and tumble into your blankets,
which were spread upon the floor. Every time there was any steering
to do, the vibration caused by the movement of the rudder awoke you
from your slumbers; and, worst of all, the insects that swarmed in the
woodwork were most numerous and officious in their unceasing attentions
to the unhappy occupants of the boat.
Two of our crew had the misfortune to disagree upon some trivial matter
during the night, and as the space for settling their differences was
limited to about four square feet on the prow of the boat, the stronger
mariner ejected his weaker comrade into the river with much noise, wordy
and otherwise. Having ascertained the cause of the squabble, and insisted
on the immediate rescue of the fallen adversary from an untimely end, we
were allowed to sleep as peacefully as we could until daylight, when we
arrived rather cold and very hungry at our first halting-stage, where
chota hazri (early breakfast) and our horses awaited us. Then began
a struggle between our domestics and the shivering crowd of coolies
collected for the purpose of carrying our luggage. With one voice they
exclaimed that the Memsahib’s boxes were quite too enormous to be carried
at all—in fact, that there never had been boxes like them before or
since, and that we must pay for at least three coolies for every box. My
husband made a few observations to them in a somewhat peremptory form,
and the end of the matter was that two men were told off for each trunk,
and eventually, with many heart-rending groans, our luggage moved off.
Now, there is one point which I must touch upon before going on, and it
is a point which must strike anyone who has ever travelled in India,
and that is the extraordinary habit your rattletraps have of looking
disreputable as soon as they come to be mounted on the back of a coolie.
Whether it is that the undeniable presence of a large and unsightly
bundle of bedding has a demoralizing effect upon the whole, which is
not lessened by the accompanying basket of fowls and ducks destined to
be your breakfasts and dinners until you arrive at your destination, I
cannot say. But be your trunks the most respectable, neat, orderly trunks
on the face of this earth, they will look plebeian when they come to be
carried on the back of a half-clothed native, and you would scarcely
recognise them were it not that your own name betrays you, painted in
large white letters on them all, and your horses fail to shy at them in
consequence, if they are gifted with ordinary intelligence.
We started off about two hours after our things had left, but we had not
gone far when I saw a familiar object lying on the side of the road in
the shape of my largest bonnet-box. Further on we spied nearly all our
luggage, with the wretched cook doing ‘sentry go’ over it. On inquiring,
we found that all our coolies had run away—no one knew where, and it was
quite impossible to get them again. Eventually we raised a few more from
a police Thana, and had to drive them in front of us the whole way to
prevent them bolting too. Consequently we were many hours getting to our
destination, and did not get dinner till about nine at night. With few
exceptions, our march continued like this every day until we arrived at
Cachar, a small station on the Manipur frontier.
CHAPTER II.
Cachar or Silchar—We are fêted there—The hill tribes: Kukis,
Tongkhuls, etc.—Their dress and habits—Rest houses, and
difficulties therein—Manipuri Sepoys: camp on the Makru
River—Logtak Lake—Colonel Samoo Singh—The Senaputti.
Cachar, or rather Silchar, deserves a description, as it has been of such
importance during the recent troubles at Manipur. The town is about one
hundred and thirty miles from the Manipur capital, but only twenty-four
miles from the boundary. The state of Manipur is separated from the
Cachar district by a river called the Jhiri, where we have outposts
garrisoned by troops. Silchar itself is not a very large station, though
it boasts of more Europeans than most Assam districts, there being a
regiment always quartered there besides the usual civil authorities. The
district has a very large planting community, and abounds in tea-gardens;
and as the planters are constantly in and out, there is a very fair
amount of gaiety, especially in the winter months, when there are always
two or three race meets, each lasting for a week, which bring people in
from far and near.
Silchar has seen much trouble during the last year. In September, 1890,
the Lushai disaster occupied everyone’s attention, and troops poured
through the place on their way to the hills about Fort Aïjal to avenge
the treachery of the tribes inhabiting those regions—treachery which
resulted in the loss of two valuable lives. A few weeks later curiosity
was rife to see the ex-Maharajah of Manipur, who had been driven from
his throne by his brother the Senaputti, and was passing through on his
self-imposed pilgrimage to the sacred city of Brindhaban on the Ganges,
accompanied by three of his brothers. Christmas brought the usual round
of races, dances, and dinners with it; but the sound of the Christmas
bells had scarcely ceased when the New Year brought tidings of a disaster
which caused men’s faces to pale, and almost out-rivalled the horrors of
the mutiny. But I am anticipating events, and must return to ourselves
and our experiences three years earlier.
We stayed two or three days in Silchar on our first arrival there and
made some new friends, and were fêted, as is the custom when new-comers
arrive at a station in India. Hospitality is a law, and you have only to
be English to be assured of a welcome from your fellow-countrymen, who
are ready to put themselves, their houses, and possessions all at your
service. There are disadvantages, maybe, to be met with in India which
are many and great, and one loses much by having to live out there;
but one never meets with such true-hearted kindness anywhere else as
in India. The narrow prejudices and questioning doubts as to who you
are, and what your station in life is, which assail you at home, vanish
entirely when you need hospitality out there. The civil list or the
army list will tell your position and income, and for the rest you are
English, you come from the old country, and all are glad to see you and
be kind to you. I am happy to think of the good friends made when I was
out there too—friends who were ready to share their pleasures with me,
and who were still more ready to help me when the dark days of trouble
came and human sympathy was so needed. Their names will ever live in my
heart, and may all good luck be theirs!
Our short stay in Silchar came to an end very soon, and we were on our
way to Manipur in real earnest by the end of the third day. The first two
marches out to the Jhiri were uneventful, and we then found ourselves
on the banks of the river, with a vast expanse of forest jungle before
us to be traversed the following day. Unluckily, it rained all that
night, and when the morning arrived it was still damp and drizzling. We
changed our coolies here, and got Nagas (hillmen) to carry the baggage.
They were fine-looking men, belonging to the various hill tribes about
Manipur. There were Kukis, Tongkhuls, and Kupoës, and they seemed to my
uninitiated eyes very alarming people indeed. They wore very few clothes,
and their necks were adorned with many necklaces made of gaudily-coloured
glass beads. Their ears were split to a hideous extent, and in the loops
thus formed they stuffed all kinds of things—rolls of paper (of which
they are particularly fond), and rings of bamboo, which stretched them
out and made them look enormous.
Their hair was cut in different ways. The Tongkhuls’ heads were shaved
with the exception of a ridge along the top, which extended to the nape
of the neck, and gave them the appearance of cockatoos.
The Kukis’ hair was long, and gathered up into a loose and very untidy
knot at the back of their heads, and the Kupoës had theirs cut so that
it stuck out all round their heads and made them look as though they had
fur hats on. _They_ made no fuss over the Memsahib’s trunks, and I was
much amused at the way they all rushed for the bath, which had a flat
cover to it, and was easy to carry and cool against their backs. It was
a muggy kind of day in the middle of April—a day that invariably brings
out legions of horse-flies and gnats and things of that species to worry
you and your horses. Worry us they most certainly did. They collected in
rows under the brims of our hats and stung our faces, and they settled in
swarms on our horses, and what with the dreadful state of the so-called
road, and the heat and the flies, we were dreadfully tormented. We had a
guard of Manipuri Sepoys with us, who marched along in front of us and
helped to lead our horses through the sea of deep mud which covered the
road. For seven miles we plodded on like this, and then we came to the
first range of high hills and got out of the mud. These hills are the
backbone of Assam, and the Manipur ranges are a continuation of those
known as the Naga Hills. The highest range on the road to Manipur is
about 6,000 feet, but they are all steep, and the road over them is very
rough, making riding difficult in places. They are covered with bamboo
jungle, and here and there you come across villages, but they are not
numerous.
At every five miles the Manipuris had Thanas for the purpose of keeping a
look-out against enemies, and acting as stages for the dak-runners. These
Thanas were not always fortified, but the larger ones were, and they had
been attacked more than once by Lushais out on a head-hunting expedition.
There was great excitement at our advent at all the Thanas, and the
Sepoys on guard at each stage turned out in style and gave us the
‘General’s salute.’ They had a particular fondness for bugling, and they
exercised it on every possible occasion; but I’m afraid they were not
struck with our appearance that day, as we were very tired and hungry,
and covered with mud.
We did not get to the end of our march till late in the evening, and
we then found we had to cross a river, as our camping-place was on the
left bank, and our horses had to be left on the other side. We crossed
by means of a bamboo suspension-bridge—a most alarming-looking erection.
These bridges are really curiosities. They are made of wire twisted into
thick ropes, and stretched from trees on either side of the river at
different heights. Bamboos are hung on to the wires close together to
form a kind of railing on each side, and these are fastened with cane to
the floor of the bridge, which is made of bamboo also, woven into a kind
of coarse matting, and although they look most flimsy and airy erections,
they are really very strong, and can carry any number of men on them
at once, and animals too, if necessary. They are a great height from
the water, which you can see between the chinks of the matting as you
walk across, and they have an unpleasant fashion of swinging violently
when you are in the middle of them, making it very difficult to keep
your footing. I did not like going over it at all, and tumbled down in
the most awkward fashion more than once, much to the amusement of the
Manipuris, who laughed very heartily.
It began to rain shortly after we had arrived at the rest-house, a large
barn-like place built of bamboo also, with one doorway and no windows of
any kind, and a mud floor. Not an atom of furniture graced this abode,
and there was nothing to be done but to sit down on the ground and wait
until our luggage should arrive—very hungry, and generally out of sorts.
Nothing came in until nine at night, when the cook arrived with the
kitchen paraphernalia, and we had a sort of dinner on the floor, and then
had to wait until two in the morning for our heavy baggage and beds,
which were travelling on elephants. It was a dreadful four hours, for in
the meanwhile swarms of mosquitoes and sandflies came out and attacked
us—hands, faces, and, in fact, any part of us that was not covered.
The delay was caused by the road being too steep and slippery for the
elephants, and their having to be unloaded five or six times—a most
tedious operation.
About three in the morning we got our beds put up and turned in, longing
for sleep, but I hadn’t been there an hour before the rain, which had
poured down in torrents ever since dinner, made its appearance through
the roof and descended upon my head. So we had to get up and move
everything, and then were able to sleep in peace for the remainder of
the night. Of course, all idea of going on the next day was out of the
question, as servants, coolies, and elephants were all too tired, and,
to add to this, the rain never ceased, so I made the best of things and
stayed in bed all day, while the coolies busied themselves in making me
a dooly out of bamboos, as we found that my horse had got a sore back
from his long climb the day before, and my husband decided that it would
be better to have me carried the rest of the way. I had time to notice
particularly our escort of Manipuri Sepoys during our halt at this
place. We were supposed to have thirty men altogether, but I never saw
more than twelve. When marching, they had counted themselves over twice
by running on ahead directly they had presented arms once, and going
through the same performance round the corner, fondly imagining that we
should be under the impression that we had double the number with us.
Their uniforms were limited. There were about three complete ones amongst
them, and the remainder adorned themselves in confections of their own.
When halting, we were provided with a sentry to keep guard over us all
day, and he was relieved about every three hours, which gave rise to a
most amusing scene. A dirty-looking individual came up to the Sepoy on
duty, and saluted him with the ordinary native salaam. The sentry then
proceeded to divest himself of his uniform coat, belt, etc., and rifle,
which he threw down on the ground; whereupon the dirty-looking person
picked them up, hastily put them on his own manly form, and, having done
so, came up to where we were sitting and saluted in fine style. The other
man had meanwhile disappeared. At night we had two sentries, and they
frequently asked us whether they might mount guard in the veranda of our
hut. This meant that before very long they would both be fast asleep upon
the floor, snoring so loud that we were awakened.
When marching, each man went as he pleased and whatever route he pleased.
If he were of a lazy turn of mind he slid down all the short cuts,
but we generally had one or two walking in front of us, one of whom
invariably possessed a bugle, which he made the most of by giving us
selections on it from his own imagination. I believe he meant well. Their
rifles were carried over their shoulders, and their worldly possessions
were done up in a cloth and slung on to the end of them in large bundles.
The Manipuri Sepoy was no doubt a very funny animal indeed.
We left our wet camp at the Makru River the next day, very glad to get
out of it, and proceeded on our journey towards Manipur. Every day was
the same: up and down hill all day and a bamboo hut at night; but our
experiences of the first day had taught us wisdom, and we put the things
which we wanted most upon coolies, and the elephants carried the rest, as
they went so slowly. The Nagas used to swarm out of their villages as we
came along to see us, and they were especially interested in me, as many
of them had never seen an English lady before. Seven days in the hills,
and the eighth brought us at last to the topmost ridge of the last range,
and then I had my first glimpse of the valley of Manipur lying beneath
us, looking delightfully calm and peaceful in the afternoon sunshine. It
looked so beautiful to us after the hills of the previous seven days,
stretching away smooth and even as far as the eye could see, and we
stopped on the top of the hill some time for the pleasure of looking at
it. We could distinguish far away in the plain the white walls of the
Maharajah’s palace, and the golden-roofed temple of his favourite god.
Just below us stretched the blue waters of the Logtak Lake, studded with
islands, each one a small mountain in itself. Villages buried in their
own groves of bamboo and plantain-trees dotted the plain, and between
each village there were tracts of rice-fields and other cultivation. The
whole valley looked rich and well cared for, and we longed for the next
day, which was to see us at our journey’s end.
We were met at the foot of the hill by ten elephants and a guard of fifty
Sepoys, under the command of a high officer of state called Colonel Samoo
Singh, who was one of the most hideous old gentlemen I have ever seen.
However, he was politeness itself, presenting us with large baskets of
fowls and vegetables, and escorting us to the rest-house, to which we
all went mounted on elephants gaily rigged out in red cloth. I wanted
to go on the same elephant as my husband, but the interpreter said ‘his
Excellency the Colonel Sahib’ would not like it if we did not make use
of _all_ the elephants brought out for our glorification, so I proceeded
in solemn dignity behind my husband’s quadruped. The old colonel came up
to the house with us, as also did the guard of honour; and then after a
final salute they all departed and left us to our own devices.
Early next morning we were up and ready for the last seventeen miles into
Manipur. We had tried to smarten ourselves up as much as possible, as we
were to be met by some of the princes before we reached our journey’s
end, but, alas! a mischievous rat had busied himself during the night
by eating a large hole in my husband’s hat and all the fingers off my
right-hand glove, and we could not get at our boxes to rummage for
others, so we had to go as we were.
The old colonel rode with us, and seven miles from Manipur we were met
by four princes. They had had a small hut built, which was nicely matted
and arranged with chairs. As we rode up, the four royalties came forward
to meet us, amidst much blowing of trumpets and presenting of arms by
their several guards of honour. This was my first introduction to the
Senaputti of Manipur, and little did we foresee the terrible influence he
was destined to bear on our future! He was not a very striking-looking
personage. I should think he was about five feet eight inches in height,
with a lighter skin than most natives, and rather a pleasing type of
countenance. He had nice eyes and a pleasant smile, but his expression
was rather spoilt by his front teeth, which were very much broken.
We liked what we saw of him on this occasion, and thought him very
good-natured-looking. The other brothers did not strike us at all, and
there were so many people there, including important officers of state,
that I became confused, and ended by shaking hands with a Sepoy, much to
that warrior’s astonishment.
We were escorted to the reception-barn by the princes. The Senaputti was
the only one who could speak Hindostani amongst them, and my husband was
able to talk to him; but the others only knew Manipuri, so contented
themselves with smiling continuously, and I followed suit by smiling
back, and it didn’t tire any of us. They presented us with an enormous
quantity of things, and I do not know how many baskets of fowls, ducks,
and vegetables they didn’t give us, for they seemed unending. At last,
after more hand-shaking, which entirely ruined my already fingerless
glove, some polite speeches from my husband and more amiable smiles from
me, we mounted our horses and, accompanied by our four royal friends and
their retinue, rode into Manipur. A salute of twelve guns was fired on
our arrival, and after we had taken leave of the princes at the entrance
to the Palace we turned into the gates of the Residency, and felt that
our journey was really at an end.
CHAPTER III.
Favourable impressions of our new home—The Residency—The
Maharajah—His brother the Jubraj—Polo with the Princes—The
Senaputti a fine sportsman—Visits us on Sunday
afternoons—Shell-firing—Prince Zillah Singh—We try to learn the
Manipuri language.
I always think a great deal depends on one’s first impressions of
anything, be it place or people. One is struck with a house or a garden
if it looks pleasant at first sight, even though a closer acquaintance
with it may bring disappointment. My first impressions of our house and
surroundings on this occasion were of the most favourable description.
A long carriage-drive led up from the entrance-gate to the house. There
were trees each side, and a delightful stretch of grassland dotted about
with deodars and flowering shrubs, with a tennis-court in the centre on
the right. A hedge of cluster roses all in blossom divided the outer
grounds from the flower-garden surrounding the house, at the end of which
was a small lake with an island in the middle of it, where, late as it
was, a few wild-duck were still swimming about. We cantered our horses
up the drive to the entrance, a long flight of steps covered by a porch,
over which grew a beautiful Bougainvillia, whose gorgeous purple blossoms
entirely hid the thatch with which the porch was surmounted.
The Residency was a long low house with a thatched roof. The walls
were painted white, and the wood-work picked out in black. A veranda
surrounded it, comfortably matted and strewn about with rugs and skins.
In front of the house there was a circular lawn covered with flower-beds
blazing with colour, and at the end of the lawn was the flagstaff of my
dreams and the ensign of Old England waving proudly in the breeze. To
us, fresh from the jungles of the previous nine days, the place seemed
beautiful, and even after we had grown accustomed to it, we always
returned to it with a fresh sense of pleasure. The inside of the house
was equally charming, and after our little hut at Sylhet it seemed a
mansion. The red-coated servants were all in attendance, and a couple of
Ghoorka orderlies, so that my aspirations in that direction were amply
satisfied.
[Illustration: VIEW OF THE RESIDENCY AT MANIPUR.]
In a very few days we had shaken down most comfortably. We had brought
with us everything we possessed, and I soon had as pretty a drawing-room
as anyone could wish for. The next thing my husband had to do was to make
friends with the Maharajah. For this purpose a durbar was arranged, and
it took place about two days after we had been there, at eight in the
morning. It was a very imposing function indeed. Red cloth was spread
all over the veranda and on the front steps, and our whole escort of
sixty Ghoorkas was drawn up on the front lawn. The Maharajah arrived
with a grand flourish of trumpets, attended by all his brothers, and
accompanied also by a large following of Sepoys, slaves and ministers
of state, each of the latter with his own retinue. The Maharajah was a
short, fat, ugly little man, with a face something between that of a
Burmese and a Chinaman—rather fairer than the Bengal natives, but much
scarred with small-pox. He was dressed very simply in white—a white coat
with gold buttons, and a very fine white muslin Dhotee.[2] He had a large
white turban on his head, in which was stuck a spray of yellow orchids.
Gray woollen stockings covered his legs, fastened at the knee with blue
elastic garters with very fine brass buckles and little bows, and his
feet were encased in very large roughly-made laced boots, of which he
seemed supremely proud.
His eldest brother, the Jubraj, was a second edition of himself, only
stouter and uglier. Next in order rode the Senaputti, whom I have already
described, and he was followed by five younger brothers. My husband had
to go to the outer gate to meet his highness with his hat off, where he
shook hands with all the princes, and then walked with the Maharajah back
to the house and into the durbar hall, which was in the centre of the
Residency. The whole durbar, being only a complimentary ceremony, did not
last more than ten minutes, but before he left the Maharajah expressed a
wish to see me; so I appeared and shook hands with them all, and smiled
amiably, as I did not know enough of the language then to speak to them.
They all stared at me very solemnly, as though I were a curious kind of
animal, and shortly afterwards they took their departure.
I shall not attempt a detailed account of our life at Manipur, as it was
very monotonous and uneventful. We got to know the princes very well.
My husband played polo with them, and I frequently rode with them. The
Senaputti in particular was our very good friend. There was something
about him that is not generally found in the character of a native. He
was manly and generous to a fault, a good friend and a bitter enemy. We
liked him because he was much more broad-minded than the rest. If he
promised a thing, that thing would be done, and he would take the trouble
to see himself that it was done, and not be content with simply giving
the order. He was always doing little courteous acts to please us. On
one occasion I mentioned to him that I had been very much frightened
by a lunatic in the bazaar, who was perfectly harmless, but dreadfully
deformed as well as insane. He used to spring out upon you suddenly,
making terrible grimaces, which was not pleasant, and he frightened me
several times. I noticed after speaking to the Senaputti about him that
he had not been in the bazaar for a long time, and afterwards I was told
that the prince had ordered him to be kept at home in the evenings, at
the time we usually went out for a walk.
Another time I had been very ill, and when I was getting better, kind
inquiries came every day from the Senaputti, accompanied by half a
dozen small birds which he thought were eatable, as he had often seen
my husband bring snipe home. The birds were useless, of course, but I
valued the kind thoughts which prompted him to send them. If anything
went amiss with my husband’s polo-ponies, the Senaputti was quite ready
to send him as many as he wanted of his own, and he always mounted any
visitor who might be staying with us and wish for a game. He was a keen
sportsman and a capital shot. In the cold weather he often organized
a week’s deer-shooting for my husband, to which I always went, and
very good fun it was. The Senaputti would meet us at the place with a
number of elephants, and we used to start very early in the morning, and
generally returned with a good bag. Bigger game was scarcely known in the
valley. Occasionally a stray tiger would wander down and kill a bullock
or two, the news of which was immediately conveyed to the Maharajah and a
shooting-party organized.
A number of men kept for the purpose would start out to the spot where
the tiger was supposed to be with nets and enormous spears. They
surrounded the bit of jungle first with nets and afterwards with a strong
bamboo fence, which, when erected, enabled them to remove the nets. The
whole of the royal family then arrived and ourselves, and ascended into
little platforms built up very high off the ground to be safely out of
reach of the tiger should he escape; and then, with much blowing of
trumpets and shouting, the fun began. The jungle inside the fence was
then cut down, each cutter being protected by another man armed with an
enormous spear. By degrees all the jungle was cut and the tiger forced to
appear, when the occupants of the platforms all shot at him at once and
ended his career. Sometimes the tiger was speared by the men inside the
fence, but the poor beast always had ten or twelve wounds in him when we
came to examine him. It was exciting, but it was not sport, and I always
felt sorry for the tiger. Whenever I was present the Maharajah presented
me with the skin and claws, and I got quite a collection in my three
years at Manipur.
The princes always seemed to like our taking an interest in their
concerns, and they frequently visited us, even sometimes on Sundays with
a small following, and without any ceremony. Their people remained in the
veranda, and they used to come into the drawing-room and talk to us, and
look at our photographs and my husband’s guns.
Any new invention in the latter pleased them immensely, and they
immediately wished to know where the weapon was made and all particulars.
They generally stayed with us some time on these occasions. Two or three
days afterwards they would ask my husband to shoot or ride with them,
and we always saw something of them during the week. On one occasion
I mentioned to them that I had never seen a shell fired, so they got
the Maharajah to arrange for a field-day, and we rode out to their own
rifle-range, and saw their two mountain-guns brought out with different
kinds of shell, and fired by the Senaputti himself.
When I think over the events of the last few months, it seems difficult
to realize the friendly terms on which we had ever been with the Court at
Manipur. How little we could foresee the terrible destruction those same
guns were to bring upon our peaceful home in the near future! I was so
delighted that day at watching the effect of a shell on the hill we were
firing at, and the Manipuris got the range very well, almost every shot
taking effect. We were out that morning four or five hours, and all rode
back together. The Maharajah rode a beautiful pony on a gold saddle, with
large flaps on each side to protect his legs, also of gold. The pony’s
bridle was made of gold cord, and his head and back covered with balls of
soft white cotton. These saddles are really curiosities, and are peculiar
to Manipur. The balls of cotton are arranged to protect the pony’s sides
from being hit at polo, and the whole turn-out is very well made, though
rather heavy for the small steeds.
It was a fine sight to see the Senaputti play polo. He was very strong;
in fact, the Manipuris used to tell us that he was the strongest man in
the country. He could lift very heavy weights and throw long distances,
and to see him send the ball skimming half across the ground with one hit
was a very pretty sight. He could do strokes that few Manipuris knew,
which is saying a great deal, for an average player at Manipur can beat
most Englishmen. The Senaputti was a magnificent rider, and he was always
mounted on beautiful ponies. He wore a very picturesque dress for polo—a
green velvet zouave jacket edged with gold buttons, and a salmon-pink
silk Dhotee, with white leather leggings and a pink silk turban. He had
long hair, which he used to twist up into a knot at the back of his neck,
and he always looked very nice on these occasions. All the princes played
polo.
There was one called Zillah Singh, a boy of about seventeen, whom we
used to call the Poem. He was a slight, graceful-looking lad, and he
used to ride a tiny mite of a pony, and never troubled himself with too
many garments. His turban was always coming off, and his long black
hair streamed in the wind as he flew about all over the ground. Even
the little son of the Maharajah used to play. He was a dear little
fellow, of about eight years old, and once a week there was generally a
youngsters’ game, in which all the little royalties used to perform, and
remarkably well too, considering how young most of them were. My husband
played regularly twice a week, all the year round. The Senaputti liked
to play for stakes, which were generally muslin cloths or turbans. These
were all hung up at the end of the ground, and when the game was ended,
the winning side were presented with them, and the losers had to pay for
them, which gave an interest to the game, and made both sides play up.
I have said more about the Senaputti than the other princes, because
he was the one of them all that we knew intimately. He could speak
Hindostani well, while the other princes spoke nothing but their own
language, and when we first went to Manipur my husband, of course, didn’t
know a word of Manipuri, so had to speak to them through an interpreter.
He did not lose much time in setting to work to learn it, and he had
an old pundit[3] who used to come every day to give him lessons. This
old gentleman was rather a character. His name was Perundha Singh, and
he deprived Government of fifty rupees annually, by virtue of calling
himself ‘Burmese Interpreter to the Political Agent,’ which designation
he had engraved on a brass plate which he wore on the front of his belt.
Whether he really knew Burmese was another matter, but he had certainly
been in Burmah, and had seen some fighting there and even got wounded
himself. He never turned up on wet days, because the bullet, which, he
affirmed, had never been extracted, got affected by the damp and became
rusty, causing him much pain and preventing his sitting down.
I had a grand idea of learning Manipuri too, but the old pundit used to
pay me such florid compliments over the extreme rapidity with which I
was picking up the language, that my husband thought I should learn it
before he did, and said we must have our lessons at different times,
which I found rather dull work, so ceased them altogether. The old pundit
was a grand gossip. He had a thousand stories of the good and evil deeds
of all the Sahibs who had been before us, and I must honestly confess
the deeds seemed chiefly evil ones. He invariably ended by saying that
there never was, and never would be, such a good and excellent Sahib as
the present one, which judicious piece of flattery he hoped would be
productive of great pecuniary results.
CHAPTER IV.
Collect various animals around us—Habits of our pets—Our
beautiful grounds—The Nagas—Amusing incident—The liquor
zu—Roast dog—Villages allotted to us for food, labour,
etc.—Women do the work—Children of the Maharajah—A
water-party—Every child dances in Manipur—The Manipuri women
not shut up.
Such was our life at Manipur. It seldom varied day by day. We used to
ride every morning, and directly after breakfast go the round of the
place, visit the stables and kitchen-garden, and feed all the animals,
from the horses down to the two little otters, which were so tame that
they followed us about like dogs. What would life in India be without
one’s animals, I wonder? We were never tired of collecting around us all
kinds of creatures, and the natives got to know it, and used to bring us
anything they caught. We had three monkeys, little brown fellows, which
were my delight. They lived during the day in boxes nailed to posts,
and were tied by ropes long enough to enable them to run up and down.
Sometimes they got loose, and we had a long chase to get them again, as
we could not leave them to do their pleasure upon our garden. One of
them was so clever that we had to get him a chain to fasten him by, as
he could undo any knot, and gnaw any rope in half in no time. He used
to untie the rope and then look cautiously round, and if he saw anyone
watching him he would sit on the end he had undone and pretend to be deep
in the mysteries of his toilette; but if no one were looking, he would
rush off to a large bed of sunflowers on the front lawn and snatch at
the blossoms, tearing them to pieces, and strewing the petals all over
the place. After this he would make for the house, and, if he were not
discovered, run into whatever door or window happened to be open and do
dreadful damage to anything that took his fancy. Directly he was seen
there used to be a grand hunt after him, when he would betake himself
to a particular tree in the grounds, clamber up to the very top, where
the branches were too thin to bear any man, and remain there making the
most hideous faces at us below. We had to station a man to watch him,
as if everyone disappeared he would immediately come down and do more
mischief. Sometimes it would be a whole day before the young ruffian was
caught, but he generally came down for his evening meal, and then was
captured. All three monkeys slept together on a beam in the roof of my
bedroom veranda, and they were as good as any watch-dog, for if anything
came into the veranda after dark they would begin chattering and making
a great commotion. Poor little monkeys! I cannot bear to think of what
their fate must have been.
We had a bear, two otters, a tame deer, and two large gray and red
cranes, besides the monkeys. The bear was a small ball of black fluff
when he came to us, with tiny teeth that could not hurt. We brought him
up on milk and rice, and he grew a huge beast. I was a little afraid
of him when he grew up. He was always getting loose, and was almost as
difficult to catch as Jacko. When he was caught, it was very amusing
to see him standing up behind his post playing hide and seek with the
servant who was tying him up. He used to put his paw round the post
and give the man’s bare leg a friendly pat, which must have been very
painful, and he stood all the while upon his hind-legs. He got very
fierce as he grew older, and one day I was out in the garden gathering
flowers and suddenly noticed the Chupprassies and orderlies flying
towards the house—a proceeding that always happened directly the bear was
at large. He very soon spied me out, and came rushing towards me, and I
began to run; but long before I could get to the house he had overtaken
me. I threw the flowers I had collected behind me, hoping that he would
stop for them, but he just sniffed at them and then came on. He caught
me up in a moment and clawed at my back, and tore my jacket all the way
down. Fortunately it was a very cold day, and I had put on a thick winter
coat, which saved me from getting badly clawed; but he gave me some nasty
scratches. Luckily the Ghoorka orderly saw it from the house, and ran up
and beat him off; and then the other servants came and captured him and
chained him up. So my husband said we must get rid of him, and the next
day he was conveyed away by four Nagas and a couple of Ghoorkas to a hill
covered with jungle about fifteen miles away and let loose there, with a
heap of rice and a lot of plantains to keep him going.
The next day we heard that the Manipuris had kept a holy festival on
the identical hill, but we never asked whether they had seen our poor
bear afterwards, and we never heard of him again. Our large grounds
were a great delight to us at Manipur. We had quite a park at the back,
with fine large trees and bushes of gardenias and roses and oleanders.
The kitchen-garden was separated from the rest of the grounds by a wall
which ran all round it. It always reminded me of an English garden with
fruit-trees growing on the wall, and English vegetables all the year
round. We had nine gardeners, or Malis, as they are called in India.
Talking of them reminds me of an amusing incident which happened in
connection with them. They were Nagas belonging to one of our villages
which lay at the back of the Residency grounds, between us and the river.
The Nagas never burden themselves with too many clothes, and these in
particular wore little beside a necklace or two. I mentioned this fact to
a spinster lady friend of mine on one occasion, and she was so horrified
that she sent me shortly afterwards nine pairs of bathing-drawers to be
given to them. They were very beautiful garments; some had red and white
stripes, and some blue, and they were all very clean. I presented them
gravely one morning to my nine Malis, and a few days after I went into
the garden in the evening and found two of the men at work. One had made
a hole in his bathing apparatus and had put his head through it, while
his arms went into the places for the legs, and he was wearing it with
great pride as a jacket; and the other had arranged his with an eye for
the artistic on his head as a turban. After this I gave up trying to
inculcate decency into the mind of the untutored savage.
We had a good many Naga servants. My second Khitmutghar[4] was a Naga,
and a very excellent servant he was too, except when he was drunk, which
I am sorry to say was very often. If we were going into camp, or if we
had just returned, were the particular occasions which, in his mind, were
the ones of all others to be celebrated with much spirituous fluid. A
message would come from the village to say that Mecandaï (the gentleman
in question) was very dangerously ill—in fact, that he was not expected
to live through the day. At first my sympathies were all aroused in his
cause, but after a little experience I discovered the nature of his
illness, and had him conveyed to the house. The native doctor was then
sent for, and if he said the man was ill he was put into the hospital; if
not, he went under military escort to the quarter-guard.
The Nagas will drink anything, but the stronger it is the better they are
pleased. They have a beverage of their own which they make of fermented
rice water. They can drink great quantities of it with no bad effect at
first, but they get very drunk on it if they go beyond a certain limit.
They call this liquor Zu, and I have heard my husband say he found it
very refreshing after a long hot march; but I never had the courage
to touch it, as they offered it to one out of a bottle that was never
cleaned and that everybody drank from. I suppose to a Naga there is
nothing more delicious than roast dog washed down with quarts of this Zu.
Poor doggies! They are only kept to be eaten. They are well fed while
they are growing up, and then, when they are ready to be eaten, they are
starved for a day. At the end of this they are given an enormous feed
of rice and the remains of a former comrade, perhaps, which they eat up
ravenously; and then the head man of the village gives the victim a blow
on the head and converts him into curry and rice.
On one occasion we were going up to our hill bungalow, and our village
Nagas, wishing to do us honour, erected a triumphal arch at the entrance
to our garden. Fortunately I looked up at it before going under, and
saw, to my horror, the head of a dog, which had just been cut off,
hanging in the centre of the erection, whilst his four paws and tail
graced the sides, and the whole archway was so low that I should have
touched the top of it as I rode under. I dismounted, however, and walked
through.
The hill bungalow mentioned was situated about fifteen miles from
Manipur. It was about 6,000 feet above sea-level, with a delightfully
cool climate all the year round, though the rainfall was excessive
during the summer months, and damp mists came up from the valley below,
hiding even the garden round the house, and making the place very cold.
Still, it was pleasant to be able to get away up there for a few days’
change from the heat at Manipur, and we generally went up from Saturday
till Tuesday every week. The village below the house belonged to us,
and rejoiced in the name of Khan-jhub-khul. We had some five or six
villages, which were given us by the Maharajah, the inhabitants of
which worked for us. They were situated in different parts of Manipur,
and we found it very convenient. The Nagas preferred working for us to
working for the Maharajah, as we paid them for their labour, whereas the
durbar considered it as revenue, and gave them nothing. At the same time,
the way the Manipuris managed all the hill-tribes about them was very
creditable. Every village had to work for the Rajah so many months in
the year—about four. Some had to cut wood, and bring so many bundles in
for the palace; others had to give so much rice, or go down to Cachar or
to Kohima for trading purposes, and each tribe had its own duties. This
system extended throughout Manipur, and not only amongst the hill-tribes,
but also among the Manipuris themselves, and was called ‘Lalup.’ In
return for their services they got their land rent free, and were not
restrained from trading in their own interests as soon as they had
performed their ‘Lalup’ for the Maharajah. It was a system that answered
very well, and the people seemed well-to-do and contented.
The women did all the hard work, as a rule. They wove all their own
and their husbands’ clothing, and cooked and looked after the house
generally, besides working in the fields and coming every evening to the
big bazaar[5] with merchandise for sale or exchange. No men were allowed
to sell in this bazaar with the exception of a few Bengalee traders, who
sat in a different part of the market and sold cloths. It was a pretty
sight in the evening to see all the women hurrying along with their wares
on their heads, and their little babies slung on their backs. They sat
in long rows in the bazaar, and it was divided up in a most methodical
way. Vegetables and fish occupied one end, and cloths and jewellery the
other, and the whole of the female population turned out, and even the
princesses occasionally sold in the bazaar. The princesses were more
numerous than the princes, as each of the latter had several wives. The
Senaputti was supposed to be the happy owner of nine wives, and the
others had almost as many.
The eldest daughter of the Maharajah was about fifteen. She very often
came to see me, in company with nine or ten other girls of the same
age, of whom more than half were royalties. The Senaputti used to bring
them, and they loved running all over the house, examining everything.
They liked most of all to go into my bedroom and try on my clothes and
hats, and brush their hair with my brushes, admiring themselves in my
long looking-glass. They used to be very much surprised to find that my
dresses would not meet half-way round their waists.
The Senaputti generally waited in the drawing-room talking to my husband.
After the party had explored my room, we used to rejoin the others, and
take them all out into the garden, allowing them to pick the flowers,
and decorate each other, and then my husband would photograph them. They
were always amused with the monkeys and rabbits, the latter particularly,
as those animals are wholly unknown in Manipur. In fact, these Manipuri
children were very much like any other children in their delight at
seeing new things. They liked going into the dining-room when the table
was laid for dinner, and asking us what all the knives and forks and
spoons were used for; and they enjoyed sitting on the sofas and in the
big armchairs, ‘just like the Memsahib,’ they said.
Once we had a water-party on the lake in the grounds. The big pink
water-lilies were in full bloom, and we had about five boats crammed with
these children and some of the little princes, and we all pelted each
other with water-lilies and got very wet, and enjoyed it immensely. Of
course it was always a drawback not being able to offer them anything
to eat or drink, as their caste forbade them taking anything of the
sort; but we used to give them flowers, and Japanese fans, and beads,
and those kind of things, with which they were very delighted. Some of
the Manipuri girls are very pretty. They have long silky black hair as a
rule, and fair complexions, with jolly brown eyes. They cut their hair
in front in a straight fringe all round their foreheads, while the back
part hangs loose, and it gives them a pretty, childish look. They dress
very picturesquely in bright-coloured striped petticoats fastened under
their arms, and reaching to their ankles. Over this a small green velvet
zouave jacket is worn, and when they go out they wear a very fine muslin
shawl over their shoulders, and gold necklaces and bracelets by way of
ornament. Very pretty these little damsels look as you meet them in twos
and threes along the road going to their dancing-lessons, or to market or
temple. Every child is taught to dance in Manipur. They cease when they
marry, but up till then they take great pride in their nautches.
The Manipuris do not shut up their women, as is the custom in most
parts of India, and they are much more enlightened and intelligent in
consequence. As soon as a woman marries she puts back her fringe; but
no other restrictions are laid upon her. They do not marry until they
are fifteen, and I have seen girls of seventeen unmarried. From going so
often through the bazaar in the evenings, I got to know several of the
women very well, and they liked my coming and having a chat with them. I
learnt all their little troubles and anxieties—how so-and-so’s baby was
teething and generally ailing, and how someone else’s had grown an inch,
or who was going to be married, and who had died. I liked talking to
them, and I learnt a good deal of the language by doing so.
CHAPTER V.
Trips to the Logtak Lake—Beautiful scene on the lake—Tent
pitched on an island in it—The Pucca Senna accompanies
us—Crowds collect to see us—Old women dance—Natives laugh at my
riding habit—Moombi—Steep ascent—Chief of the village threatens
us—Unpleasant quarters—Wet condition and hostile reception—My
husband teaches the Prince English.
From April to the end of October was the rainy season in Manipur, and
from October till the end of March the weather was as perfect as could
be, very cold, and yet bright and sunshiny, with never a drop of rain
to trouble one. All our winter went in camp. We used to go out for a
month at a time, and then return to the Residency for a few days before
starting out again in another direction. We generally managed two trips
to the Logtak Lake. This lake lay to the south of the valley, a day’s
journey by boat, or two days’ if one rode. We preferred the boating. We
used to start off early in the morning and ride about fifteen miles,
where the boat would wait for us, with all our luggage packed in one end
of it, and a well-filled lunch-basket to keep us going by the way. These
boats were long and narrow, and were called ‘dug-outs,’ because each one
was hollowed out of a single tree. We spread the bottom with lots of
straw, and put rugs and pillows on the top, and then lay down on them and
found it very comfortable.
About five in the evening we arrived at the mouth of the river, and had
generally to wait some time there to allow the wind, which always got up
in the evenings, to subside, as the lake was too rough to cross while
it was blowing. Even when we did cross, two hours later, the waves kept
breaking into the boat, and we had to set to work to bale the water out.
I don’t think I shall ever forget the first time I saw the lake. We did
not arrive till late, and the moon was high up in the heavens, shedding
a glorious silvery light on the broad expanse of waters, and making the
islands, each one a small mountain in itself, appear shadowy and far
off. Far above our heads’ flew strings of wild geese going off to feed,
and uttering their strange hoarse cry as they flew. Here and there as
our boat shot past some sheltered nook or tiny islet two or three ducks
would paddle out, scenting danger, and curious water-birds would rise
from the swampy ground and noiselessly disappear in the far distance. But
the stillness on all around us, and the beautiful lake, whose surface
the now dying wind still gently ruffled, had a great effect upon one’s
imagination, and I was quite sorry when we shot through a narrow creek
and came suddenly upon the camp.
Our tents were pitched on one of the largest and most beautiful islands,
under a big tree, and at the end of a long village, which was built
picturesquely on the shore of the lake. The villagers and our servants
came down to help us out of our boats with torches and the inevitable
bugler, who played us up to our tent in grand style. We were very glad to
get in and find an excellent dinner awaiting us, and still more pleased
to get to bed. Every day we used to start out at six in the morning,
before the mist had cleared—I in one boat, and my husband in another—and
creep round the little islands after duck, and we generally returned with
a large bag.
In two days once my husband got eighty-two ducks and thirty geese. He did
great execution with an eight-bore he had, and generally knocked over
half a dozen or so at a time with it. Duck-shooting is very exciting, and
hunting wounded birds a lengthy operation. They let you come quite close
to them, and you think you have got them safely, when they suddenly dive
under your boat and appear again yards off; and by the time you have
turned your boat and gone after them again they are still farther away. I
never liked it when we had caught them and they used to be consigned to
my husband’s boat, as I could not bear to see them killed. Sometimes they
were so tame that we let them alone, as it seemed butchery to shoot them.
One year when we went to the Logtak the Pucca Senna (the Maharajah’s
third brother) asked if he might come too. We were very pleased to have
him, so he arrived, and every day he went out shooting with us, and as
he was a good shot he made a welcome addition to our party. He shot
everything he could see, whether it was game or not, but he shot well. We
sent all the birds we could not eat up by boat to Manipur for the Sepoys
of our escort, who were very grateful for them. We stayed a week the
time the Pucca Senna was with us, and he came on afterwards on a tour
along the southern boundary of the valley to some very curious places,
where they had never seen an English lady before, and where the people
exhibited the greatest curiosity and excitement over my advent. We were
always coming upon crowds collected at different places on the roads, who
had journeyed many miles to see me. They all presented us with a few eggs
or fowls, as the case might be, in the hope that the presentation of them
would delay us, and that they would be able to get a good view of me.
Sometimes, instead of giving us anything, they brought four old women to
dance before us, and we would come upon them suddenly over the brow of
a hill and find them jumping about on the other side like so many old
monkeys for our edification. We were, of course, obliged to stop and look
at their exertions, and present them at the end of the performance with
rupees. They always came round me and touched my clothes and hands, and
seemed to be surprised when I turned up my sleeve and showed them that my
arm was white too, like my hands. My clothes caused much curiosity. It
was the time then of large dress-improvers, and they had seen me walking
out at one village we stopped at in a fashionably-made costume, with at
least three steels in it.
The next day I went out on my pony in a riding habit, followed by the
usual crowds. We stopped for a few minutes, and I saw our interpreter
in fits of laughter over something. I asked my husband what the man was
laughing at, and after a little persuasion the interpreter told us that
the villagers wished to know what I had done with my tail! At first I had
no idea what they meant, but after a little while they explained, and
then I discovered that they had imagined the fulness at the back of my
dress had concealed a tail, and they could not understand why the habit
looked different. We were very much amused, and when we got back to the
camp I showed some of them the steels in my dress. They thought it a very
funny fashion indeed.
We went away the next day, much to their disappointment, to a place a
long way off in the hills, and had a number of queer adventures. The
Manipuris told us that this place, called Moombi, was about eighteen
miles distant, so we started very early. I commenced by riding, but
before we had gone very far the hills became so steep that I got into
my long chair and was carried by Nagas. My husband had to walk, and
so did Prince Pucca Senna, much to his disgust, as he was a very lazy
individual, and never cared to use his legs much. This time there was no
help for it, so he puffed and blew as he came up the hill, and said he
felt very ill indeed. It must have been thirty miles instead of eighteen,
and it was very tiring. I had to hold on to the arms of my chair to keep
myself in it at all, and the road got worse and worse, until at last I
had to take to my hands and knees too, as by this time the rest of the
party were crawling up on all-fours like a string of ants.
We got to the top at length, and were going on up to the village, which
was a few yards ahead, when a message came down from the chief of the
village, sent by one of his slaves, saying that if we came any farther
he would shoot at us. This was rather alarming at the end of a long
and tiring march. The messenger went on to say that they had built a
grass hut for us a little below the place we had halted at, and that no
one would molest us if we stayed there, but we were not to go into the
village. I think if we had had a sufficient armed force with us that my
husband would have gone on, but as we were only travelling with a small
escort of Manipuris, who seemed much more inclined to run down the hill
instead of up it, we agreed to remain in the hut they had built for us,
to which we then proceeded.
[Illustration: TRIBESMEN OF MANIPUR.]
There was no mistake about its being a _grass_ hut. It was built of
green grass, something like pampas grass, with flowery tops which they
had not cut off, but left to wave in a sort of archway over our heads.
The roof was very light and airy, and full of large spaces to allow of
rain or hail entering the abode if the weather were stormy. The floor
was covered with loose, ungainly-looking planks, thrown down anyhow all
over it, and if you trod on the end of one suddenly, it started up at the
other end like a seesaw. Fortunately we always took a small tent with
us to be certain of shelter in case any of the arrangements should fall
through, and we had it on this occasion. We soon unpacked it, and got a
place on the side of a hill cleared, and began putting it up, hurrying
over it as fast as we could, as the clouds were gathering up all round
us, and we knew rain was coming.
Long before we had finished erecting it, however, the storm broke. I
have rarely seen such a storm. The wind blew so strongly that it needed
all our forces to hold on to the tent-ropes to prevent the whole being
blown down the hill on to the top of the unfortunate prince, who, by the
way, was housed below us in a wretched grass shed, a copy of ours, only
very much smaller. The thunder and lightning were dreadful, as the hills
around us re-echoed every peal, and the lightning shone out so vividly
in the darkness which had set in. At length the wind went down somewhat,
and we adjourned to the hut for dinner, where we sat under one umbrella
with our feet on the bath-tub turned upside down, and our plates in our
laps. The rain poured meanwhile through the so called roof, and the
nodding grass-tops dripped on to our heads. We got to bed about two in
the morning, when it cleared up, and the stars came out, as it were, to
mock at us for the general soppiness of ourselves and our belongings. We
did not dare inquire for the well-being of the prince. Streams of water
we knew had rushed down the hillside quite powerful enough to carry his
hut away.
Next morning very early one of his followers came up to say that his
master had not been able to sleep all night, as his house had been swept
away and many of his valuables lost; and that he presented his salaams to
the Sahib and the Memsahib, and hoped that we did not intend remaining in
so horrible a place.
It had been our original intention to stay at Moombi three days, but
our wet condition, coupled with the hostile reception from the chief,
decided us to make a move down the hill. First of all, though, my
husband insisted that the chief should come down and pay his respects
to us, which, to our great surprise, he did after a little persuasion,
bringing his three wives and a number of followers, all of whom were
armed with guns of very ancient design, with him. They wore very few
clothes, and were not pleasant-looking men, and the women were all very
short and dumpy-looking, and, oh! so dirty. They presented us with eggs
and melons, and the wives gave me a curious spear and some baskets of
rice. My husband asked them what they meant by greeting us with such an
alarming message the night before, to which they replied that they had
made a mistake, and did not mean that they would fire on us. We found out
afterwards that they thought we were coming to collect some revenue which
they had owed to Manipur for some time and refused to pay, and that they
were afraid we intended marching into their village and forcing them to
pay.
My husband hauled the chief (who, by the way, called himself a Rajah)
over the coals for it, and told him that he was to come into Manipur,
where the revenue case would be inquired into; but we parted very
peaceably after going up to the village by the chief’s own invitation,
where we inspected the outside of his house. It was fenced all round with
strong stakes, and on the top of each stake was a head, and more than
one of them unmistakably human skulls. Whether the original owners of
them had died natural deaths, or whether they were trophies of war, we
did not inquire. There were some beautiful elephants’ tusks in the chiefs
veranda, and some fine-toned Kuki gongs, one of which he presented to
us. We left with many expressions of affection from the Rajah of Moombi
and his wives, but we were very glad when we found ourselves at the foot
of the hills leading up to his kingdom, and solemnly made a vow never to
return there again. We visited the iron wells on our way home. There are
about seven of them, and it was very interesting watching the men at work.
My husband amused himself in the afternoons by teaching the prince
English. He used to read out of a queer old spelling-book, filled with
words that one would really never use. One sentence was—that is to say,
if one could call it a sentence—‘an elegant puce quilt.’ Now, I don’t
think his highness would ever have used either word, but it amused me
greatly to hear him trying to pronounce ‘quilt’; it developed into
‘kilt,’ and never got any farther. I laughed so much that I had to beat
a hasty retreat. There was one expression the prince did learn, and that
was ‘good-bye’; but it was a little embarrassing to meet him on arrival
and be welcomed by a shake of the hand and a solemn ‘good-bye.’ It rather
damped one’s ardour. He never could understand that it was a farewell
salutation, and not a general greeting.
CHAPTER VI.
Society at Manipur—Band of the Ghoorkas—The bandmaster—His
peculiar attire—The regiment ordered away to our regret—Worse
news—We are ordered to leave—Parting views—Mr. Heath
appointed—Son of the Tongal general—His good and bad
qualities—Magnificent scenery—The Ungamis—Their quarrelsome
character.
When we first went to Manipur we had a certain amount of society, as it
was then the headquarters of a Ghoorka regiment, which was stationed four
miles away from us, at a place called Langthabal; not a pleasant spot by
any means, as it had only been roughly cleared for a cantonment, and the
roads about it were little better than paths. The officers lived in huts
made of bamboo, and the walls had a thin covering of mud on the outside,
which some of the more enterprising inmates had painted with whitewash,
making them look a little more like the habitations of civilized folks.
Some of the huts had very pretty gardens round them, but small, of
course, though the flowers there seemed to do twice as well as ours did
in the Residency garden. We saw a good deal of the officers in the 44th
Ghoorka Rifles, the regiment there when we arrived. They used to come in
for polo twice a week, and to what I was pleased to call my ‘at home’
every Thursday, when we played tennis and had the Maharajah’s band from
four o’clock till six.
This band was composed of Nagas, and it was wonderful to hear how easily
they learnt English music. Waltzes and any dance music came easiest to
them, and they kept excellent time; but they could manage anything, and I
have heard them play difficult selections from the great masters without
a mistake. Their bandmaster was very talented. As a young man he had gone
to Kohima to be taught by the bandmaster of the 44th Ghoorka Rifles, and
he had a natural ear for music, and could even sing a little. He used
to get very impatient at times when the bandsmen were more stupid than
usual, and on one occasion he took to beating them, and they refused to
work any longer under him. They were imprisoned, and many of them beaten,
but at last, after a great deal of persuasion, backed by a few rupees,
they were induced to begin again, and the bandmaster promised to cease
from castigating them whenever they played a wrong note.
I shall never forget my first introduction to the bandmaster. He arrived
dressed in what he called his ‘Calcutta clothes,’ of which he was
immensely proud. They consisted of a white frock coat, made in a very
old-fashioned way; black broadcloth continuations, rather short and very
baggy; a red-corded silk waistcoat, with large white spots, and tie to
match; turn-down collar and ancient top hat, constructed in the year
1800, I fancy. He had a small peony in his button-hole, and last, but
not least, patent-leather boots stitched with white and covered with
three rows of pearl buttons. He carried a light cane, surmounted by the
head and shoulders of a depraved-looking female in oxidized silver as
a handle. He showed this to me with great pride, and really it was a
marvellous machine, for when you pressed the top of her head attar of
roses came out of her mouth and nose, and if you were anywhere near you
were covered with that pungent liquid. It was very difficult to avoid
laughing at this curious get-up, and when he had safely embarked on a
long overture from ‘William Tell,’ I disappeared for a few minutes to
give vent to my amusement. He was quite a character, and always afforded
me a weekly surprise, as he seldom appeared in the same clothes twice
running, and his wardrobe seemed as endless as it was select.
Being able to have the band when we liked was very pleasant. It brought
the officers over from Langthabal once a week at any rate, and we always
rode out to see them every week. We were very gay there in those days,
and we used to have dinner-parties, and I enjoyed the change of going
to the mess to dinner now and then. Of course the four miles’ journey
there was a little trying. The Manipur roads never admitted of driving,
so I used to be carried in a long chair by hospital Kahars, and my
husband used to ride. It was terribly cold coming back late at night,
and often very wet, but we did not mind that very much to get an outing
occasionally.
Terribly sorry we were when the decree went forth that we were to lose
the regiment. We knew that they might go any day, and a Chin expedition
cropped up in the winter of 1888, which took our only neighbours off
on the warpath. We were very depressed at the idea of losing them, but
perfectly desolated when a letter came saying that we ourselves were to
go to another station. We were out in camp when it arrived, and I never
shall forget the hopeless silence that fell upon us both at the news.
We had counted upon being safely installed at Manipur for three years
at the least, but, alas! a number of senior men were coming out from
furlough, and had to be provided with districts before the juniors. We
had taken so much pride in the place during our ten months’ residence
there that we were very loath to go. We talked it over, trying to find
some way of getting out of leaving, but came to the conclusion there was
none. That was in December, but we did not really leave until February,
as the officer who was to relieve us had to come a long distance from
the other side of the Assam Valley, and he took as long as he possibly
could in coming, being as loath to take the place as we were to give
it up. Sadly we walked round our gardens, noted the rose-trees only
lately arrived from Calcutta, which we had been counting on to make
the place beautiful during the coming year, and gazed mournfully at the
newly-made asparagus-bed that we hoped would have fed us in three years’
time. I almost felt inclined to destroy everything, but my husband was
more magnanimous, and even went as far as to say he hoped Mr. Heath (our
successor) would enjoy it all.
We made the most of our last two months in Manipur. Two shooting
expeditions to the lake, and a journey to Cachar for the Christmas
race-meet, occupied most of our remaining time; but, like all things, it
came to an end—all too soon for us—and one morning the guns boomed out a
salute to our successor. It was a case of ‘Le roi est mort. Vive le roi!’
The same elephants, covered with the same crimson coverings, welcomed
him in the identical manner that they had welcomed us. The red-coated
Chupprassies hastened to pay their respects to the new Sahib and attend
to his wants, heedless of those of the old Sahib, and I think we both
felt then what leaving the place would really mean to us.
Mr. Heath was much impressed by all the glories prepared for him, but
he had not been in the house very long before he told us how much he
disliked coming to Manipur. He hadn’t a good word to say for it, and I
felt very sorry for him, as he really seemed to dread the loneliness
terribly. Lonely it certainly was, and the outlook was worse for him
than it had been for us, as we had each other, and the regiment was four
miles off. He had no one. I knew well how the solitude would weigh on him
before many days were over. It had been dreadful work for me at times,
when my husband was kept in the office till late in the evening, and I
had to amuse myself as best I could from eleven in the morning until
dinner-time. There were no books or papers to be got under three weeks
or a month’s post, and then one had to buy one’s books, as there was no
going to a library for them. So I felt very sorry for poor Mr. Heath,
as he seemed far from strong into the bargain. However, I did my best
to cheer him up by taking him all round the gardens and over the house,
and showing him that, as far as the place went, he could not wish for a
better.
Then we went for a walk through the bazaar and on to the polo ground,
and eventually, when we returned in the evening, he seemed in a happier
frame of mind, and the band playing whilst we were at dinner cheered him
up considerably. But next day, when the time came for us to depart, he
was very gloomy, and as I was worse myself, I could not put on a pleasant
outward appearance. It was very hard to leave the place, having to bid
good-bye to all our pets, leaving them in the hands of the servants who
might or might not look after them. I took the three little monkeys with
me, as I would not part with them, and they were travellers already, as
they had come to Manipur with us. My husband did suggest letting them
loose in a large grove of mango-trees not far from the Residency that
was filled with monkeys which we often used to go and feed with rice and
plantains, but I knew how they fought amongst themselves, and how the big
ones bullied the little ones, so I preferred taking my three with us. I
took a last walk round the grounds, and almost directly after breakfast
our horses came to the door and we had to make a start. All the servants
that were remaining behind came and bid us good-bye, and some of the
red-coated Chupprassies gave us little presents of dried fruits and nuts.
We rode out of the place very slowly, but as soon as the quarter-guard
gates had closed behind us we put our ponies into a gallop, and never
stopped till three or four miles lay between us and the Residency, and
neither of us spoke much for the rest of the ten that limited our journey
that day.
We were going to a place over two hundred miles away called Jorehat,
in the Assam Valley, near the Brahmapootra, and to get to it we had to
pass through Kohima, in the Naga Hills, ninety-six miles from Manipur.
It was my first visit there, and I enjoyed the eight days’ journey to it
immensely. We were accompanied as far as Mao Thana (the boundary between
the Manipur state and Kohima) by the eldest son of the Tongal General.
Before going on, I think some description of the latter officer will not
be amiss, especially as he has played so important a part in the late
rebellion. He was an old man, nearer eighty than seventy I should think,
taller than the average Manipuri, and marvellously active for his age. He
had a fine old face, much lined and wrinkled with age and the cares of
state which had fallen upon him when he was quite a young man, and had
in no wise lessened as his years increased. He had piercing black eyes,
shaggy overhanging white eyebrows, and white hair. His nose was long and
slightly hooked, and his mouth was finely cut and very determined. He was
fond of bright colours, and I never remember seeing him in anything but
a delicate pink silk dhotee, a dark coat made from a first-rate English
pattern, and a pink turban, and when the orchids were in bloom, he seldom
appeared without a large spray of some gorgeous-hued specimen in the top
of his turban.
The Tongal always reminded me of an eagle. He had the same keen, rugged
expression and deep-set, glowing eyes. Few things happened without
his knowledge and consent, and if he withheld his approbation from
any matter, there would invariably be a hitch in it somewhere. He was
credited with more bloodshed than any man in the kingdom. If a village
had misbehaved itself, raided on another, or refused to pay revenue or
do Lalup, the Tongal would travel out to that village and wipe it off
the face of the earth. Men, women, and children were cut down without the
slightest compunction. Few escaped, and these travelled away and joined
other villages; but every house and barn and shed was burnt, pigs and
fowls destroyed, and ruin and devastation reigned where prosperity and
plenty had held sway before. I believe in later years restrictions were
brought to bear upon the Manipur durbar which prevented such wholesale
slaughter; but in earlier days the Tongal had, as he expressed it,
‘nautched through many villages’ in the style described, and brought
desolation into many a hillman’s peaceful home.
If he had his faults, he had his virtues also. He was very enterprising,
fond of building bridges, and improving the roads about the capital. Like
the Senaputti, he was a keen soldier, enjoyed watching good shooting,
and had been in his younger days a first-rate shot himself. He was an
obstinate old man, and it was very difficult to get him to listen to
any proposition if it did not please him at the outset; but when once he
had promised to get anything done, he did not go back from his word, and
one knew it was reliable. He lived in a large house some distance to the
south of the palace, with his family. Of these, only two sons were of any
importance—the eldest, called Yaima, and the second son, a very handsome
young fellow, named Lumphel Singh. The latter was perhaps the most
influential, and my husband always said he thought that he would take
his father’s place in the state when anything happened to the old man.
Lumphel was the favourite aide-de-camp of the Maharajah, and he was the
officer in charge of the hundred and twenty-eight miles of road between
Manipur and Cachar. At durbars he used to stand behind the Maharajah’s
chair with a very magnificent uniform covered with gold lace, and a gold
turban.
Yaima, the eldest brother, was not good-looking at all, but a nice young
fellow, and very hard-working. He came with us on our journey to Kohima
at the time of which I write, and was very obliging, and ready to put
himself out in any way in order that we might be comfortable, which,
considering that we were departing, as we then thought, for good from the
place, was very courteous on his part. We were very sorry to part with
him at Mao Thana.
The scenery on the road between Kohima and Manipur is magnificent. Some
of the hills run as high as nine thousand feet, and yet until you are
within three days’ journey of Kohima the road is almost level, winding
in and out along a narrow valley. Forests of oak abound the whole way,
and in the cold weather the trees lose their foliage, making it look very
English-like and wintry.
Sometimes you find yourself riding along a narrow path which skirts round
the side of a steep hill, while below you is the river, clear and blue
and deep, with an occasional rapid disturbing the calm serenity of its
flow. The hills around are studded with villages, and peopled by various
tribes. The Nagas in the immediate vicinity of Kohima are perhaps a finer
race than any hillmen to be found in Assam. They are called Ungamis, and
are very fine men, most of them six feet high at least, broad shouldered,
and powerfully built. Their dress is curious, and quite different to any
of the Nagas about Manipur. It consists of a kind of very short kilt made
of coarse black cloth, trimmed with three or four rows of shells like
cowries. In old days, before Kohima was as settled and quiet as it is in
these days, these rows of shells are said to have borne a meaning—a man
who had never taken a human head was not allowed to sew them on to his
kilt. For every head taken they affixed so many cowries, five or six at a
time, as the case might be, and a warrior with three rows on his kilt was
considered a great gun indeed.
The Mao Nagas were Ungamis, and used to be rather a handful for the
Manipuris to manage. They were always getting up feuds with the villagers
over the border, and the Manipuris were very often afraid of hauling
them over the coals for it, for fear of getting the worst of the fray.
We stayed two days at Kohima on our way to Jorehat, and travelled after
leaving there through the Namba forest to the next station, called
Golaghat. We took eight days to do this bit of our journey, as the
weather was delicious, and we wanted to make the most of our time on the
road, being in no hurry to arrive at our destination. This Namba forest
covers an enormous area. It extends hundreds of miles each side of the
road, which is constructed right through the middle of it. The scenery
is wonderful. High forest jungle rises each side of you as you ride
along. Here and there you come across a river, whose sandy banks show the
footprints of many a wild beast. Bears, tigers, leopards, and elephants
swarm in the jungle around, but one seldom sees anything more exciting
than a harmless deer browsing by the wayside, or a troop of long-tailed
monkeys crossing the road. It is all very wild and beautiful, and when we
eventually came to the end of our eight days’ march through the Namba,
and reached cultivated regions once more, we were quite sorry. We stayed
two days at Golaghat, the first station reached after leaving the forest,
and then proceeded to our new subdivision, arriving there at the end of
three days.
CHAPTER VII.
Short stay at Jorehat—My husband appointed to Gauhati—Value
of the bearer in India—His notions and mine not always
in harmony—Arrive at Gauhati—Illness and death of Mr.
Heath—Presentiments—My husband returns to Manipur—I remain at
Shillong—Delicious climate.
There is no necessity to give a detailed account of the time spent
between our leaving Manipur and our return there. It extended over a
period of some ten or twelve weeks only. Instead of remaining at Jorehat
three months as we had at first expected, we were there only ten days,
just long enough to get everything unpacked and stowed away, when a
telegram came from Shillong, ordering my husband to another station
called Gauhati, on the Brahmapootra. As it was a better appointment, he
accepted it, but it was very hard work having to start off on the march
again before we had had time to rest ourselves after our long journey
from Manipur. That wonderful domestic whom we could never do without in
India, the bearer, soon repacked all our things.
Why haven’t we someone like a bearer in England? He is a perfect godsend
in the shiny East. He is valet to the Sahib, makes the beds, dusts
the rooms, cleans the lamps and boots, and is responsible for all the
performances of the other domestics. If they fail to do their duty, or
break your furniture or crockery, you scold the bearer. If one of your
horses goes lame or gets out of condition, the bearer knows of it very
soon, and if your cook sends you up anything nasty for dinner, or the
butter is sour or the milk turned, your bearer is admonished. No doubt he
lectures the other servants for their misdeeds, and takes many gratuities
from them, varying in bulk, for pacifying his irate master or mistress.
He generally gets on amicably with the whole establishment, but sometimes
he makes an enemy of one or other of the servants, and ructions are as
constant as they are noisy. The two bearers (for they generally hunt in
couples) that we had had been with my husband for many years. They were
both very excellent servants, though the elder of the two gave himself
the airs and graces of a Maharajah.
My advent into the menage did not please him at all. Well he knew that
his little sins of omission and commission, so easily perpetrated in a
bachelor establishment, would all vanish and be things of the past when
a Memsahib came out from Belat[6] to rule the roost. Many a battle have
I had with Mr. Moni Ram Dass, as my husband’s chief factotum was called,
before I could get him to see that my way was not his way sometimes. For
instance, on one occasion shortly after my arrival in India I found him
airing the _whole_ of my husband’s wardrobe in my drawing-room at an
hour when visitors were certainties. Now, there are some garments in a
man’s outfit—and in a woman’s, too, for that matter—which, with the best
intention in the world, could never be made to look fitting ornaments
for a lady’s drawing-room. I expounded this theory to the bearer on this
occasion, but it was some time before I got him clearly to understand
that his master’s wardrobe was to be confined to the limits of the
dressing-room and back veranda; and when he did carry off the garments
in question, it was with an expression on his face of severe displeasure
at my want of taste in not considering them in the light of ornaments to
my drawing-room. One virtue in this estimable individual certainly was
worthy of all praise: he knew how to pack.
When we were leaving Manipur, he had packed all our belongings, and on
our arrival at Jorehat, after a long, rough journey, we found everything
in perfect order, and not even a cup broken. He repacked our things when
we had to leave there again, and took them himself to Gauhati, saving us
all the trouble of having to look after our heavy baggage ourselves, and
enabling us to follow on in comfort some days later.
It was beginning to be hot when we arrived at Gauhati early in April, and
I dreaded having to spend the hot season in the plains. It was to be my
first experience of great heat, as the summer before in Manipur we had
never needed punkahs, and on the hottest day we ever had, the thermometer
registered only 87°.
A week after we went to Gauhati, news came from Manipur that Mr. Heath,
our successor, was very ill indeed with dysentery. And as every day went
by, bringing reports of his condition, sometimes better, and then worse
again, we began to fear that he would not recover. At last one day a
telegram came saying that all was over, and that he had died the previous
evening. We were both very sorry to hear it. We had liked what we saw of
him so much, and had been so sorry to leave him there, apart from our own
sad feelings at going, knowing that he disliked and dreaded the place so
much. It seemed terribly sad. I knew well, too, that it would mean our
returning there, and much as I had regretted leaving, I did not want to
go back.
I cannot tell why the dislike had arisen within me at the thoughts of
returning; but the journey was so long, and the time of year so trying,
and on the top of that there was the feeling that a man whom we had known
and liked had just died in the house, and that if we went back it would
be to rooms that were full of his things, and associations quite unlike
those we had left behind us. Maybe that a warning of all that was yet to
come filled me with some unknown presentiment of evil; but it seemed as
though our return there was inevitable.
Within twenty-four hours after we had heard of Mr. Heath’s death came the
letter offering Manipur again to my husband. I watched his face light
up as he read it, full of eagerness to get back to the place he loved,
and I knew that I could never tell him that I did not want him to go. My
reasons for not wishing to return seemed childish, and I thought he would
not understand the superstitious ideas which filled me with dread at the
idea of going back. So when he came to me with the letter and asked me to
decide whether we should say yes or no to it, I said we had better accept
what it offered.
As it was so late in the year for travelling, and the weather so hot
and unhealthy, my husband decided to leave me in Shillong on his way to
Manipur, and let me follow in October. It was with a heavy heart that
I superintended the arrangements for the return journey. An undefinable
dread seemed to predominate over all I did, and I bid good-bye to my
husband when he left me behind in Shillong with a very heavy heart, and
my anxiety was not lessened when I heard from him day after day, giving
me terrible accounts of all he was going through on the way. Every one of
his servants, with the exception of the Khitmutghar, got ill with fever
and other complaints peculiar to the time of year. They had to be carried
the whole way, and my husband had to cook his own dinner and groom his
horses himself every day, besides having to unpack all the necessary
tables and chairs at each halting-place, and do them up again before
starting off next morning. It was only a mercy that he did not get ill
himself to add to the other miseries, and that I was not there to make
extra work for him. Very glad was I to hear from him at last that he had
arrived safely at Manipur. I don’t think he felt very bright at first.
He was quite alone there. The regiment was still away in the Chin Hills,
and rumours were afloat that when it did return most of the men were to
be drafted to Shillong, and only a wing left to garrison Langthabal. My
husband complained, too, that the Residency had somewhat gone to seed
since we left. During Mr. Heath’s illness and the time which elapsed
between his death and our return the servants had all taken a holiday, so
there was a good deal to be done to get things into order again. Several
rooms in the house that contained the dead man’s effects were kept locked
up, and it was some time before my husband could get the whole house
opened and the things sent away down to Calcutta.
Meanwhile I was enjoying myself very much, having got over my first
feelings of loneliness, and made friends with everyone in the place,
more or less. Shillong is a lovely little station nestling away amongst
the Khasia Hills, in the midst of pine woods, and abounding in waterfalls
and mountain-torrents. The climate is delicious all the year round, and
the riding and driving as good, if not better, than any hill-station in
India. Life there was very pleasant, not a superabundance of gaiety, but
quite enough to be enjoyable. I have spent some very happy days there
with some good friends, many of whom, alas! I can never hope to see
again; and the memories that come to me of Shillong and my sojourn there
are tinged with sadness and regret, even though those days were good and
pleasant while they lasted.
Things have changed there now, that is, as far as the comings and goings
of men change, but the hills remain the same, and the face of Nature will
not alter. Her streams will whisper to the rocks and flowers of all that
has been and that is to be. So runs the world. Where others lived and
loved, sorrowed and died, two hundred years ago, we are living now, and
when our day is over and done there will be others to take our place,
until a time comes when there shall be no more change, neither sorrow nor
death, and the former things shall have passed away for ever.
CHAPTER VIII.
A terrible experience—A Thoppa and a journey in it—Its
difficulties and dangers—The Lushais—Arrive at Sylhet—Find the
Coolies have levanted—A pony journey ends disastrously—A night
walk—Accident to Mr. A⸺.—Arrive at a teahouse—Not a shadowy
dinner.
I left Shillong early in November, 1889, travelling part of the way
towards Manipur quite alone, and had a terrible experience too. I had
arranged to journey a distance of thirty-eight miles in one day. I sent
one of my horses on the day before, and started in a ‘Khasia Thoppa’ down
the last hill of the range upon which Shillong is situated, which brings
you down into the plain of Sylhet. A Thoppa is a very curious mode of
locomotion. It is a long cane basket, with a seat in the middle, from
which hangs a small board to rest your feet upon. Over your head is a
covered top made of cane, covered with a cloth. You sit in this basket
and a man carries you on his back, supporting some of the weight by tying
a strap woven of cane on to the back of the Thoppa, which he puts over
his forehead. The Khasias, luckily, are very strong men, but they think
it necessary always to begin by informing you that you are much too heavy
to be lifted by any single individual, unless that said individual be
compensated at the end of the journey with double pay.
You ask him what you weigh, and he scratches an excessively dirty head,
shuts up one eye, spits a quantity of horrible red fluid out of his
mouth, and then informs you that he should put you down as eighteen or
nineteen stone, and he even will go as far as twenty sometimes. This,
to a slim, elegant-looking person, partakes of the nature of an insult,
but eventually he picks you up on his back and proceeds along the road
with you as fast as he can, as if you were a feather weight. Going along
backwards, and knowing that, should the man’s headstrap break, the
chances are you will be precipitated down the Khud,[7] are certainly not
pleasurable sensations; but it is astonishing how exceedingly callous you
become after a lengthy course of Thoppa rides up in the hills. Sometimes
your Thoppa wallah[8] may be slightly inebriated, when he will lurch
about in a horrible manner, emit a number of curious gurgling noises from
the depths of his throat, and eventually tumble down in the centre of the
road, causing you grievous hurt.
At other times he will take into consideration that it is a cold night,
the Memsahib is going to a Nautch,[9] and will be there four or five
hours, while he is left to his own reflections outside, waiting to carry
her home again when her festivities have subsided. Having arrived at
the conclusion that the cold will probably by that time be intense, he
will come to take you to the scene of action enveloped in every covering
that he can get together. After he has carried you a short way he begins
getting hot, and rapidly divests himself of his many wrappers, placing
them on the top of your machine, where they flutter about, hitting you
now and then playfully in the mouth or eye, as the case may be, and
making themselves as generally unpleasant as they possibly can. Having
done so, they end by falling off into the road. Your Khasia perceives
them, and immediately descends with you on to his hands and knees, and
grovels about until he recovers the fallen raiment. During this process
your head assumes a downward tendency, and your heels fly heavenwards;
and should you move in anyway ever so slightly, you immediately find
yourself sitting on the ground in a more hasty than dignified attitude,
upbraiding your Khasia in English. You may swear at a native and abuse
all his relations, as their custom is, in his own language, and you will
not impress him in any way; but use good sound fish-wife English, and he
will treat you as a person worthy of respect.
On my journey from Shillong, at the time of which I write, I fell in with
two very amiable Khasias. One could speak Hindostanee rather well, and he
walked beside me as I travelled down the hill and talked to me on various
interesting subjects. He asked me a great deal about the Lushais, and I
invented some wonderful anecdotes for his delectation. When we parted,
I think I had impressed him with the idea that I was a person of great
moral worth.
At the foot of the hill I got into a small train, the only railway to
be found at present in that side of Assam. I think it only extends over
about twelve miles of country, and there are about four trains, two
up and two down daily. They do not trouble themselves by putting on
too much speed. We, my servants and I, travelled as far as we could in
it, and then I found myself within twenty miles of Sylhet—my proposed
destination—in lots of time to ride in comfortably before dark, and get
my servants and baggage in at the same time. But, alas! the inevitable
fate of the traveller in Sylhet was destined to be mine, too, on this
occasion; and when I got out of the train, expecting to find my coolies
waiting for me, I found a wretched police inspector, who informed me that
the coolies had all run away, and he could not get me any more. What was
to be done I knew not, but after some delay I met a young fellow whom I
knew slightly, as he was connected with the railway, and I had seen him
passing through the district once before. He was a perfect godsend to me
on this occasion, and after some hours’ hunting for coolies he managed to
get the requisite number, and started them off with my luggage.
The next thing to be done was to start myself. Mr. A⸺ kindly offered to
go with me half-way, as it was then four o’clock, and only two hours of
daylight left. Off we started, he on the most extraordinary pony I have
ever seen, that looked as though it might fall down at any moment, and I
on a small Manipuri pony I had taken with me up in the hills. We started
off galloping, and went as hard as we could for six miles. I hoped that
about seven miles from Sylhet I should find a pony-trap waiting for me
which a planter had offered to send to meet me, so I did not spare my
small steed, as I knew he would not think anything of twelve miles.
By the time we got to the river, where I expected the cart to meet me, it
was almost dark. My poor pony was terribly tired and hot, but Mr. A⸺’s
curious old beast seemed none the worse. We crossed the river on a ferry,
and then found there was no cart on the opposite side. It was a terrible
blow, for our ponies had done enough as it was. Night was rapidly
overtaking us, and seven miles of the road lay before us to be got over
somehow. I had passed all my coolies three miles away on the road from
the railway, and knew that they would not be in for hours. There was
nothing to be done but to go on as best we could. There were tracks of
the cart-wheels in the road, so I knew it had been there, and it made it
all the more annoying. It was no good trying to gallop on, as my pony was
so tired he could scarcely crawl.
We proceeded slowly for about two miles. It was getting darker every
minute, and at length we could see nothing at all, but knew that we had
still five more weary miles to travel over. Mr. A⸺ suggested our urging
our horses into a canter, which ended disastrously for me, as my pony
caught his foot in something on the road and landed on his head. That
was the end of all idea of riding, so I got off, hauled him up on his
legs by dint of much persuasion, and started off walking. The road was
ankle-deep in loose sand, jackals hurried by us at every moment, and
noises startled me at every turn. At last I remembered that the planter
who had sent the cart out lived somewhere in that neighbourhood. When we
had been quartered in Sylhet, I had often ridden past his house, though I
had never been actually up to it, and I told Mr. A⸺ that I thought we had
better steer for his bungalow, if we could only find the road up to it.
We went on as fast as we could, considering, and at length saw the lights
of the house standing some distance to our left away from the road.
The next thing was to find the way up to it. My companion asked me to
look after the ponies—a rather unnecessary precaution, as they were too
tired to need any looking after—and he proceeded to try and find the
road. After a little while I heard a stifled call in the distance, which
was repeated, and then I discovered that poor Mr. A⸺ had fallen into a
horribly wet, slushy rice-field, and needed my help to extricate him.
Having given him the necessary aid, and hauled him out, we decided that
any more searching for the road up to the house would be a futile waste
of energy, and were preparing to make the best of our way into Sylhet,
when a coolie woman came by, and we rushed at her and asked if she could
show us the way to the Sahib’s bungalow. She seemed very much alarmed at
our sudden appearance, as we were then only dimly visible by the light of
the rising moon. However, she said after a little that she would not mind
conveying us up to the house, provided that we would allow her a fair
start in front of us, as she professed to be much alarmed at our horses.
We proceeded slowly and solemnly behind her, and at length found
ourselves not at the bungalow, but at the tea-house, an erection made
of corrugated iron in which the tea was manufactured. All round this
building there were wire stays which were fastened in the ground and
attached to the roof, to prevent the latter being blown off in storms
of wind. My poor tired pony caught his feet in one of these wires and
tumbled down; so, thinking that it was better to take what rest he could,
he did not trouble himself to get up again. It was not much good scolding
our guide, but we seemed no better off than we had been in the road
below, and the lights of the bungalow gleamed just as far away as before.
Mr. A⸺ suggested shouting, so simultaneously we all lifted up our voices
and shouted as loud as we could.
At length, after doing this a great many times, a light appeared in the
door of the bungalow; and a few minutes afterwards the figure of my
friend the planter became visible descending the hill upon which his
house was situated, and coming armed with a big stick to see what evil
spirits were in possession of his tea-house.
Very much surprised was he when he found there was a lady in the case,
and not a little disconcerted over his own appearance, as he was not clad
in raiment suitable to the entertaining of female visitors.
I was much too tired, however, to notice whether he was got up for the
occasion or not, and he seemed a perfect godsend to us both after all we
had gone through.
He soon took us up to his house, and in half an hour gave us dinner. Real
dinner, too—not a shadowy make-belief; but soup, entrée, and joint, just
as though we had come by invitation, and this had been the result of some
days’ preparation.
How we did eat! There was little doubt that we appreciated the excellent
fare set before us, and at the end of it I felt a different being.
Our friend the planter had meanwhile got himself up regardless of
expense, and offered to drive me into Sylhet, an offer which I most
gladly accepted, leaving the poor Jabberwock in a comfortable stable,
with a large bundle of grass in front of him, which he was too tired to
eat.
We did not take long to get over the four miles to Sylhet, where I bade
farewell to the planter and Mr. A⸺, who returned with him to the garden.
I had the pleasure of lying down on a bed with no bedding, and waiting
until my coolies and baggage should arrive, with part of my muddy habit
rolled up to serve for a pillow; and very well I slept for three good
hours, when at two o’clock in the morning my goods and chattels commenced
dropping in, and I was able to go to bed in real, sober earnest.
Next morning the Jabberwock arrived, looking rather miserable, with a
very large swelling on his leg, and a bad girthgall; so there was no
possibility of our continuing our journey that day, as the servants all
said they were dying, and could not move on at any price. However, the
day following they had recovered sufficiently to proceed another fifteen
miles; and after three more days I arrived at Cachar, where I found my
husband, who had come down from Manipur to meet me.
CHAPTER IX.
Return to Manipur—Mr. Heath’s grave—Old Moonia—A quarrel and
fight between Moonia and the Chupprassie’s wife—Dignity of the
Chupprassies—The Senaputti gets up sports—Manipuri greetings
and sports.
It was strange finding myself back in Manipur after nearly nine months’
absence; but though the house had had several improvements made to it,
and the grounds were prettier than when we had left in February, I could
not settle down in the place as I had done before. Poor Mr. Heath was
buried in our own garden, quite close to the house—so close, in fact,
that I could see his grave from my bedroom window. There had been two
graves there before—one was Major Trotter’s, who was once political
agent at Manipur, and died there from wounds which he had received
fighting in Burmah; the other was that of a young Lieutenant Beavor, who
had also died at the Residency, of fever. But we had never known either
of these two men, so that I did not look upon them in the same light as
I did on Mr. Heath, and his sudden, sad death seemed to haunt me. Once a
friend of mine remarked to my husband, ‘What an unlucky place Manipur is!
I have seen so many political agents go up there, and something always
seems to happen to them.’ Hearing this gave me a cold shudder, and I
longed to get my husband to give up a place so associated with gloomy
incidents, and take some other district in the province. Not that I was
ever really afraid of anything tangible.
[Illustration: THE GARDENS OF THE RESIDENCY AT MANIPUR.]
I rode alone all over the country, fearing nothing from the inhabitants,
who knew me, and would have been only too ready to help me had I needed
aid; and I have been left for days together quite alone at the Residency
while my husband had to be out in camp. Once he had to go down to Tammu
in Burmah, five days’ journey from Manipur, and I was too ill to go with
him, so stayed behind.
For sixteen days I was there all alone. We had no neighbours nearer than
a hundred miles off, and I never even heard English spoken until my
husband returned. The old ayah used to sleep on my doormat at night, and
I always had sentries outside the house, back and front. I used to hear,
or imagine I heard, all kinds of noises sometimes, and get up, waking the
old woman from her noisy slumbers to come and do a midnight parade all
round the house, searching in every nook and corner for the disturber of
my rest, which was probably nothing more harmful than an antiquated bat
roaming about in the roof, or a rat in the cellars beneath the house. The
poor old ayah used to pretend to be very valiant on these occasions and
carefully hunt in every dark corner which I had already turned out; but
she was always glad to get back when the search was ended to her own
venerable blanket, in which she used to roll her attenuated form, and
snore away the long vigils of the nights.
Poor old Moonia! she was a faithful old soul, and has tramped many a
mile after me in my wanderings backwards and forwards. She was a lazy
old woman, but if I told her so, she gave me warning on the spot. She
did this very frequently—on an average, six times a month; but after a
little I got accustomed to it—in fact, I may say I got rather to like
it—and I never by any chance reminded her of her promised flitting, or
took any notice of the warning when she gave it to me. She was a very
quarrelsome old creature, and had some very bitter enemies. First and
above all she detested the head bearer. She hated him with a deep and
deadly hatred, and if she could do him a bad turn she would do it, even
though it caused her much fatigue, bodily and mental, to accomplish it.
Next to the bearer she disliked the wife of one of the Chupprassies.
This female was a powerfully-built Naga woman, with a very good opinion
of herself; and she returned the ayah’s dislike most fully. They were
always at war, and on one occasion they had a stand-up fight. We had
gone out into camp, and as Moonia (the ayah) had not been well, I left
her at home instead of taking her with me, as I generally did. Two days
after we had started, a report reached us that she had had a terrible
fight with the Chupprassie’s wife, and the latter had injured her very
seriously. We heard nothing more about it at that time, so I imagined
that the ayah’s wounds were healing, and that I should not be informed
as to details at all. Not so, however. We returned to the Residency a
fortnight later, and I sent for my abigail as usual, receiving in return
a message saying that she could not come, as she was still dangerously
ill. Having, however, insisted on her appearing, she came—very slowly,
and with her head so enveloped in coverings that I could not see even the
tip of her nose. Groans issued forth at intervals, and she subsided on
to the floor directly she entered the room. After a little parleying, I
persuaded her to undo her various blankets, and show me the extent of her
injuries. They were not serious, and the only real wound was one on the
top of her head, which certainly was rather a deep cut. However, I soon
impressed upon her that I did not think she was as near death’s door as
she evidently imagined, and let her return to her own apartments, vowing
vengeance on her adversary.
Moonia presented a petition soon afterwards, and my husband had to try
the case, which he proceeded to do in the veranda of the Residency.
The evidence was very conflicting. All the complainant’s witnesses
bore testimony against her, and _vice-versâ_; and the language of the
principal parties concerned was very voluble and abusive. The ayah made
a great sensation, however, by producing the log of wood she had been
beaten with, covered with hair and blood, and the clothes she had worn
at the time, in a similar gory condition. The hair in the stick was very
cleverly arranged. Where it had originally come from was not easy to
define; but it was stuck in bunches the whole length of the stick, and
must have been a work of time and ingenuity. However, there were many
exclamations of commiseration for the complainant, and eventually the
defendant was fined one rupee, and bound over to keep the peace.
Then ensued a funny scene. The ayah argued that the fine imposed was not
heavy enough, and the adversary threatened her with more violence as soon
as she should leave the presence of the Sahib; and they swore gaily at
each other, as only two native women know how to swear, and had to be
conveyed from the court in different directions by a small guard of the
43rd Ghoorkas, who were mightily amused at the whole business. I thought
at the time that should the Chupprassie’s wife ever get an opportunity of
wreaking vengeance on the ayah, she was just the sort of woman to make
that revenge a deep one; and I pitied the ayah if she ever fell into her
hands. The day did come before very long; but of that I shall speak later
on.
Our Chupprassies were very useful, but very lazy, and puffed up with
pride in their own loveliness. Their red coats with the ‘V.R.’ buttons,
covered with gold braid, lent them much dignity; and there were many
little offices which they absolutely refused to perform because they
wore the Queen’s livery, and considered themselves too important. For
instance, I requested four of them once to go into the garden and catch
grasshoppers out of the long grass with which to feed a cage full
of little birds. One of the four alone condescended to go; the rest
solemnly refused, saying that they could not demean themselves by such a
performance, and that I must get the Naga boys out of the village to do
it for them. And I had to give in to them ignominiously.
These ten Chupprassies were all supposed to be interpreters of some kind
or another; but for the most part they could speak no other dialect but
their own, whatever that happened to be, and had no idea of translating
it into any other tongue.
Altogether, they were decidedly more ornamental than useful. Two of them
rode extremely well, and they acted as my jockeys in some pony-races
which the Senaputti got up one Christmas Day, amongst other sports, for
the amusement of our Sepoys and his own.
The Senaputti had got the idea of this Gymkhana from having seen the
44th Ghoorka sports on one occasion at Langthabal, when that regiment
was stationed there, and besides the ordinary races and competitions the
Manipuris had some which I have never seen anywhere else. One feat they
performed was to lay a man on the top of six bayonets. The bayonets were
fixed to the rifles, and the latter were then driven into the ground
like stakes with the points upwards. A man then lay down flat on the
ground and made himself as stiff as possible, when he was lifted up by
four other men, and laid along the tops of the bayonets. Had he moved
they must have gone into him, and we never knew how the performance was
managed, or whether they fixed anything on the points of the bayonets to
prevent their piercing his flesh; but it did not look a nice trick at
all, and one always dreaded an accident. There was wrestling, too, in
which the princes took part, and foot races, and the Senaputti gave the
prizes, mostly in money. And to wind up there was a play. The Maharajah
had three jesters, exactly like the old English fashion of having
court-jesters to amuse royalty.
The Manipuri specimens were very funny indeed. Their heads were shaved
like the back of a poodle, with little tufts of hair left here and there;
and their faces were painted with streaks of different-coloured paints,
and their eyebrows whitened. They wore very few clothes, but what they
had were striped red and green and a variety of shades. They walked up to
the tent where we were sitting to watch the sports, all leaning against
each other, and carrying on a lively conversation in Manipuri, which
seemed to amuse the spectators very much. On reaching the door of the
tent they all fell down at our feet, making terrible grimaces by way of
greeting, and then they picked each other up and retired a few yards off
and commenced the performance. One disguised himself as an old woman, and
another as a native doctor, and the third as a sick man, lying on the
ground covered with a white sheet. Someone out of the crowd was impressed
into the play, and he had to call the doctor to the sick man, who was
meanwhile heaving up and down upon the ground in a very extraordinary
manner. The doctor came and poked him about, making observations in
Manipuri, at which everyone roared with laughter; and then the old woman
arrived and dragged the doctor off home. She was supposed to be his wife,
and as soon as she appeared a scuffle ensued, in which the old woman’s
clothes fell off. We thought best to beat a retreat, as the play was
beginning to be rowdy and the dialogue vulgar; but I believe that it went
on for some hours afterwards, as we heard shouts of laughter proceeding
from the direction of the polo-ground, where the sports were held, late
at night; and the princes told us the next day that it had been a very
good play, and the only pity was that we had witnessed so little of it.
CHAPTER X.
Bad relations between the Pucca Senna and the Senaputti—Rival
lovers—Quarrels in the Royal Family—Prince Angao Senna—Pigeon
contests—The Manipuris’ fondness for gambling—Departure of the
Ghoorkas—Too much alone.
All was peaceful at Manipur around us until September 11, 1890. As day
after day went by, we seemed to get to know the royal family better.
Rumours of strife amongst the brothers reached us from time to time, and
petty jealousies showed themselves in some of their dealings—jealousies
that the weak will ever have for the strong, in whatever country or
community it may be. But we were good friends with them all, though it
was difficult at times to avoid giving cause for disputes between the
Pucca Senna and his more powerful brother, the Senaputti. If one came
more often than the other, that other would get annoyed, and refuse to
come at all for some time. The Pucca Senna got very angry, because the
Senaputti frequently escorted the young princesses on their visits to
me, and on one occasion he tried to arrest some of their attendants in
the road when they were leaving the Residency, which might have been the
beginning of a very serious disturbance, had not my husband, hearing
privately that something of the kind was meditated, sent an orderly and a
Chupprassie with the girls to see them safely as far as the palace.
The Senaputti had left the Residency on that occasion some time before
the young princesses went away. Poor children! they were very much
alarmed at the attempt to waylay their attendants, and it was a very long
time before they summoned up enough courage to pay us another visit.
We knew that the Pucca Senna and the Senaputti were rivals, too. Both
wished to marry a girl who was supposed to be the most beautiful woman in
Manipur. She rejoiced in the name of Maïpâkbi, but I never thought her as
pretty as some of the young princesses who used to come and see me. She
was not a royalty herself, but was the daughter of a wealthy goldsmith
who lived near the palace; her father was a prominent member of the
Maharajah’s durbar, or council. She was taller, though, than the average
Manipuri, about sixteen years of age, and very fair, with quantities of
long black hair. She was always very well dressed, and had a great many
gold bracelets on her arms, and some necklaces of pure gold which weighed
an enormous amount.
‘Fine feathers make fine birds,’ says an old proverb, and in this case
it was certainly true; but the two princes thought her beautiful, and
were at daggers drawn about her. We had a big nautch one night, to
which Maïpâkbi came as chief dancer. All the princes were there to see
it, and the two rivals for the young lady’s affections sat one on each
side of me. The Senaputti was all cheerfulness and good-humour, but the
Pucca Senna was very gloomy and morose, and at the end of the evening my
husband said we must never ask the two brothers together again. Shortly
afterwards we heard that they had had a terrible quarrel, in which the
Maharajah had taken the part of the Pucca Senna, and that the Senaputti
had sworn never to speak to the latter again, an oath which he kept to
the letter.
Meanwhile I went away to the hills, and all seemed to go on quietly
for two or three months, though a storm was brewing in the meanwhile,
which only needed an opportunity to burst forth and overwhelm the
reigning power in destruction. The eight brothers split up into two
factions—the Maharajah, Pucca Senna, Samoo Hengeba, and the Dooloroi
Hengeba formed one side; whilst the Jubraj, Senaputti, Angao Senna, and
the young Zillah Singh all leagued together. Of the first four named,
the Samoo Hengeba and the Dooloroi Hengeba are the two that have not been
mentioned previously. The first of these was the officer in charge of the
Maharajah’s elephants, numbering about sixty. It was his duty to manage
all the arrangements in connection with them, and on grand occasions,
when the Maharajah rode on an elephant, his brother, the Samoo Hengeba,
acted as Mahout.[10] The name means Chief over elephants, Samoo being the
Manipuri name for an elephant, and Hengeba head or chief.
The Dooloroi Hengeba had command of all the Maharajah’s doolies.[11] This
mode of travelling was confined to the rich, and was considered a mark
of great dignity; not everyone could indulge in this luxury, and those
who did had to get special permission to use them, though sometimes
they were conferred upon ministers of state by the Maharajah as a mark
of recognition for their services. The Maharajah seldom travelled in any
other style, as he was a very stout, apoplectic kind of personage, and it
suited him better to be carried than to ride or go on an elephant. His
dooly was a very magnificent affair, made of wood, with gilt hangings all
round it, and a gilt top, which could be put over it in wet weather.
Prince Angao Senna was in charge of the road between Burmah and Manipur.
He was supposed to travel up and down it to see that it was kept in a
state of repair, but I don’t think he ever did so. He was quite young,
about two or three and twenty, and I never remember seeing him without
his having a large piece of betel-nut in his mouth, which he used to
chew. It gave him the appearance of having a swollen face, as he stuffed
enormous bits of it into his mouth all at once, exactly as a monkey will
do with nuts or anything of the kind, and people said he never cared for
anything but eating and drinking and watching pigeon-fights.
The Manipuris are great gamblers, and they used to make these
pigeon-fights the occasion for betting considerably. A good fighting
pigeon was worth a lot of money—forty or fifty rupees. They were handsome
birds, larger than the ordinary pigeon sold in the market for an anna
apiece, and they had most beautiful plumage. The contests between two of
them were generally held in the middle of one of the principal roads.
Each owner brought his pigeon to the scene of action tied up in a cloth,
and they were then put under a wicker cage, something like a hen-coop,
where they fought until one conquered.
It was very unexciting to watch it, we thought; but the crowd of
spectators used to take a breathless interest in the combatants, and bet
considerably upon them. I never quite understood how they decided which
bird had won, as they simply beat each other with their wings, cooing
loudly the whole time, and sometimes one seemed victorious, and sometimes
the other. However, there were doubtless points in the combat which we
did not understand, and the Manipuris always took the deepest interest in
them.
Latterly, after the expulsion of the Maharajah, his brother, the regent,
put a stop to these pigeon-fights, as the gambling over them was becoming
excessive, and several of the younger princes had been seriously
involved, and the state had had to pay their debts. A heavy punishment
was inflicted upon anyone found encouraging a pigeon-fight, and even the
casual spectators received a beating, whilst the owners of the birds,
and whoever had instigated the proceedings, were hauled up before the
durbar and fined large sums. However, Prince Angao Senna was never caught
red-handed, though we heard that he still continued to encourage and
attend these séances on the quiet.
June, July, and August went by. Day by day came letters from my husband
at Manipur full of all the little details which went to make up his life
there, and never a dream of future trouble arose to disturb our peace of
mind. The only thing that rather worried my husband was the approaching
departure of our only neighbour, an officer in the 44th Ghoorkas,
quartered at that time at Langthabal. Since the regiment had left in the
winter of 1888 for Burmah, we had never had more than a wing of it back
at Langthabal, and in the winter of 1889 it was decided that the troops
should be removed altogether, and our escort increased from sixty to a
hundred men under a native officer. But this decision took some time to
effect. Barracks had to be built in our grounds for the accommodation
of extra men, and these took time in building. So that it was not until
January, 1891, that the garrison at Langthabal departed.
CHAPTER XI.
The Princes quarrel—Attack on the Maharajah—His retreat—His
cowardice and accusations—The Pucca Senna departs also—Conduct
of the Jubraj.
Early in September, 1890, the storm that had long been gathering amongst
the princes at Manipur came to a head and burst. The spark that kindled
the blaze arose out of a very small matter indeed. The young prince
Zillah Singh had been quarrelling with the Pucca Senna over everything
and anything that could be found to quarrel about, and at length the
Pucca Senna got the Maharajah to forbid Zillah Singh to sit in the
durbar, at the same time depriving him of some small offices of state
which he usually performed.
The young prince lost no time in consulting with his powerful brother
and ally, the Senaputti. The result was that one night, about midnight,
when the Maharajah had retired and the rest of the palace was wrapped
in slumber, the young prince collected a handful of followers, and with
his brother Angao Senna climbed the wall leading to the Maharajah’s
apartments, and began firing off rifles into the windows. The Maharajah
had never had much reputation for courage, and on this occasion, instead
of rousing his men to action and beating off the intruders, he rushed
away for safety out at the back of the palace, and round to the Residency.
Meanwhile, the first note of alarm was brought to my husband by the
bearer, who woke him up at two in the morning with the report that a
fight was taking place in the palace, which report was fully confirmed by
the whiz of bullets over the house; and in a few minutes the Maharajah
and his three brothers arrived in hot haste from the palace, trembling
for their safety. Some Sepoys came with them, and a great many followers
armed with swords and any sort of weapon they had managed to snatch up in
the general melée.
My husband went out as he was, to receive the Maharajah, and got him to
go into the durbar room and lie down, as he was in such a terrible state
of alarm. But he refused any comfort, though he was told that he need
have no fear, as even then the Ghoorkas were marching in from Langthabal,
and as many as were needed could be got down from Kohima in four or five
days to retake the palace which the rebel princes had got possession of.
But all to no purpose.
Meanwhile my husband went away to dress, and in a very short time the
detachment of the 44th had arrived from the cantonments to garrison the
Residency in case of attack. But the fight was a very feeble one, owing
to the immediate retreat of the Maharajah and his party, and after the
first few shots all was quiet. My husband brought every argument to
bear upon the Rajah to induce him to brave the matter out, and allow
some efforts to be made to regain his throne; but he would not listen
to any reason, and after some hours spent in fear and terror as to what
the next move might be, he signified his intention to my husband of
making a formal abdication of his throne for the purpose of devoting the
remaining years of his life to performing a pilgrimage to the sacred city
of Brinhaband, on the Ganges. He was in the Residency from two o’clock
in the morning of one day to the evening of the day following, as my
husband was anxious to get him to reconsider his hasty resolve to abandon
his throne; but fear of the Senaputti overcame all other sensations:
he persisted in putting his intentions in writing; the letter was sent
informing his rebel brothers of his decision, and in the evening he left
the place with a strong escort of Ghoorkas to see him safely down to
Cachar.
During the hours that he spent at the Residency, an incident occurred
which he (the then Maharajah) has since tried to bring up before the
public as an accusation against my husband; but the real facts of the
case were as follows: I have mentioned that on leaving the palace that
night the Maharajah was escorted by a number of Manipuri Sepoys, all
armed with rifles, besides the rag-tag and bob-tail who carried swords,
and daôs, and such weapons. To avoid confusion and any unnecessary
cause for alarm, the officer in charge of our escort, and my husband,
considered it wiser to deprive the Manipuri Sepoys of their rifles for
the time being. They were therefore all collected and stowed away in a
corner of the veranda, and it was intended that they should, of course,
be eventually returned to their several owners; or if further hostilities
were commenced by the occupants of the palace, making it necessary to
defend the Residency, each Manipuri should receive back his rifle at
once, and be considered as part of our own force. But as the firing had
ceased entirely in the palace, it would have been unwise to leave the
Manipuri Sepoys in possession of their rifles, for they were under no
sort of control, and were ready to fire without any provocation at all,
a proceeding which would probably have been attended with disastrous
results, as the Senaputti would not have hesitated to return the fire
from his strong position in the palace, and things would have assumed
a serious attitude. The Maharajah was consulted, and agreed to the
proposition, and his men were disarmed for the nonce. This has since been
turned into a very different tale by the exiled monarch to serve his
own ends, and he has accused my husband of disarming his troops without
his consent, thus disabling them from making any attempt to regain the
position he had forfeited himself through abject cowardice.
At length, after nearly thirty-six hours in the Residency, during
which the Maharajah would eat nothing, he made a formal abdication in
writing of his throne in favour of his next brother, the Jubraj; and my
husband, finding every argument of no avail, began to make the necessary
arrangements for his highness’s departure, which took place in the
evening of the second day. Some of the ministers came to the Residency to
bid him farewell, and seemed sorry that he was going; and there were some
very affecting partings.
No regret seems to have been felt, however, on the Pucca Senna’s
departure, as he and his two younger brothers accompanied the Maharajah
into his voluntary exile. The Pucca Senna had never been a favourite.
He was very bad-tempered and jealous, and ready to find fault with
everything, and make mischief all round. People liked the Maharajah
himself, but his favourite brother was cordially disliked; and
afterwards, when we were out in the district in the winter, we used to
hear the opinion of the country people, and it was always that they
considered it a pity the Maharajah had gone, but they did not want the
Pucca Senna back.
My husband bade them farewell on the banks of the river separating
the Cachar road from the Residency, and saw them safely on their way,
escorted by our Ghoorkas, and then returned to begin a new régime, which
was destined to last but a few months, and end so unhappily.
Meanwhile, during the attack on the palace, and victory of the rebel
princes, the Jubraj had betaken himself to a place seventeen miles
from Manipur, called Bishenpur, there to remain a neutral observer of
the contest for the Ghuddi.[12] Had the Maharajah held his own, and
driven the rebels out of the place as he should have done, the Jubraj
would still have been on the right side by saying that he was away, and
consequently did not know what was taking place in the city. As it was,
he returned to Manipur as soon as matters had settled themselves in
favour of the Senaputti and his adherent brothers, and accepted with calm
equanimity the government of the state, and the title of regent.
There has been some confusion over the different titles given to the
various members of the royal family at Manipur; and, to avoid any further
mistakes as to the identity of each, I cannot do better than end this
chapter with a tree showing the several princes and their denominations
both before and after the flight of the Maharajah, known as Soor Chandra
Singh—thus:
1.
2. Soor Chandra Singh, 7.
Jubraj, Maharajah. Pucca Senna,
Heir-Apparent. Commander of the
horse.
5.
3. Angao Senna,
Senaputti, Officer in charge of 8.
Commander-in-Chief. Tamum Road. Zillah Singh,
A.D.C. to the
4. 6. Maharajah.
Samoo Hengeba, Dooloroi Hengeba,
Chief officer in charge Officer in charge
of the elephants. of doolies.
When the Maharajah went away, he took with him, as I have said before,
the three princes known as Pucca Senna, Samoo Hengeba, and Dooloroi
Hengeba, leaving behind him the remaining four, who took upon themselves
new titles as follows:
The Jubraj became Regent.
The Senaputti became Jubraj.
Prince Angao ” Senaputti.
Zillah Singh ” Samoo Hengeba.
Therefore in future I shall use these titles in writing of the new
Government to avoid confusion.
CHAPTER XII.
Vigour of the new reign—A magic-lantern performance—Conduct
of the bandmaster—First mention of Mr. Quinton—Visit
to Burmah—Beauty of the scenery—House ourselves in a
Pagoda—Burmese love of flowers, and of smoking—Visit
Tummu—Burmese love of chess—First meeting with Grant—He
helps us to make a cake—Search after orchids—Arrival of
visitors—Important telegram from Chief Commissioner—Coming
events commence to cast shadows.
Early in November I returned from the hills, and went back to Manipur.
Everything seemed changed by the alteration in the government of the
state. There was little doubt that the new Jubraj was practically ruler
of the roost, and the improvement was very great in everything. Roads
that had been almost impassable in the ex-Maharajah’s reign were repaired
and made good enough to drive on. Bridges that had been sadly needed
were erected; some of them on first-class plans, which were calculated
to last three times as long as the flimsy structures which existed
previously. The people seemed happier and more contented, and my husband
found it much easier to work with the Manipur durbar than he had done
when there were eight opinions to be consulted instead of four. There
were no more petty jealousies and quarrels among the princes, and I had
no fears about asking them all at once to any festivity.
At Christmas they all came to a magic-lantern performance. My husband
had got one out from England, and he made the slides himself from
photographs, choosing as subjects groups of Manipuris, or photographs
of the princes and bits of the country. A picture of Miss Maïpâkbi
was greeted with much applause on the part of the Jubraj, who, by the
way, had decided to add this young lady to his other nine wives. The
performance concluded with a large representation of the ex-Maharajah
in royal dress. Dead silence greeted it, and an awkward pause; but my
husband changed the slide almost directly to one of a humorous character,
which caused everyone much amusement.
I mentioned the royal dress in the Maharajah’s photograph. This was worn
only on very great occasions, usually of a sacred nature. It consisted of
a coat and Dhotee made of silk, of a grayish shade, embroidered all over
in purple silk in a fleur-de-lis pattern. No one but a prince could wear
this particular stuff; and if anyone was found with it on, whether in
his house or on the public thoroughfare, he was immediately seized, and
deprived of the garments in question, and everything else he happened to
have on at the same time.
On one occasion the bandmaster expressed a wish to have his photograph
taken, and my husband arranged to do it for him on a certain day. He
arrived with a large bundle, saying that he wished to be allowed to
change his attire in our grounds, as he desired to be taken in the royal
dress, and could not walk from his house to ours without being subjected
to the ignominious treatment I have already described. So he retreated to
the largest tree he could find and retired behind it, where he hastily
attired himself in the coveted robes, adding as extra adornment a cap
of green satin embroidered in gold, shaped like a small tea-cosy, and
curious sorts of pads, also of green satin, on the backs of his hands. He
put a large red flower in his buttonhole, and borrowed my husband’s watch
and chain, as he had none of his own. He looked a very queer character
indeed, but the photograph turned out a great success and filled him with
delight, which increased tenfold when I painted one for him. He divested
himself, after the picture was done, of his fine feathers, and took them
away in the same dirty, unsuspicious-looking bundle in which they had
arrived.
I was sorry to find that this bandmaster had left Manipur when I returned
there. He had gone down to Calcutta with the ex-Maharajah, with whom
he had always been a great favourite, and left the band to the tender
mercies of a havildar, who knew nothing of music.
Early in January of this year, 1891, we went to Kohima to meet the chief
commissioner, Mr. Quinton, and spent a very pleasant four days there. It
was always such a treat to see people. Life in the station at Manipur
was so dreadfully monotonous, but I had been better off than my husband,
who had not seen any white faces for several months. Not that that
troubled him very much. He always adapted himself to whatever er were his
circumstances, and made the best of them, never thinking of, and worrying
himself for, the many things he had not got. But when the opportunity
of getting anyone down to stay with us did arise, he was very keen about
it, and while at Kohima we tried very hard to persuade the chief and his
daughter to come to Manipur; but it could not be managed, as Mr. Quinton
had then arranged his tour, and had not sufficient time to spare to
enable him to come such a long distance out of his way. That journey was
always the difficulty, and had it not been such a lengthy one, people at
Kohima would often have come down to see us at Manipur. But as a rule the
whole of their leave was swamped in coming and going.
From Kohima we went to Tummu, in Burmah, returning first to the Residency
for a few days. This was my first visit to Burmah. My husband had gone
down the year before, but I had been too ill to accompany him, and had
stayed behind. We had lovely weather, and enjoyed the journey there
immensely. The scenery on the way is lovely, and as the forests are not
so dense as those on the Cachar road, one can get magnificent views
of the surrounding country every now and then. Range after range of
mountains rise gloriously around you, as you wend your way among the
leafy glades and shimmering forests which clothe their rugged sides. Cool
and green near you, growing purple as you leave them behind, and becoming
faintly blue as they outline themselves on the far horizon, these
mountains fill you with admiration. Forests of teak rise on each side of
you as you get nearer Tummu, and the heat becomes much greater.
After five days we arrived at our camp, which was situated on the
boundary between Manipur and Burmah, at a place called Mori Thana. Here
we stayed, living in a pagoda, in company with several figures of Buddha
and many other minor deities, indicating that the building was sacred.
The Burmese are very fond of flowers, and they always place vases of
gaily-coloured blossoms in front of their gods, and small punkahs to
keep them cool. The pagoda we were lodged in was built, like all Burmese
houses, on piles, about three feet from the ground. The climate is so
damp that they are obliged to be raised, or the floor of the house would
very soon become rotten. Everything at Tummu was quite different to
Manipur: the women dressed in much gayer colours, and did their hair more
picturesquely in large knobs on the top of their heads, into which they
stuck tiny fans, or flowers, or brightly-coloured beads. All the women
smoke, even the young ones, and one seldom sees them without a cigar in
their mouths. These cigars are made of very mild tobacco, grown in their
own gardens, and dried by themselves. They roll a quantity up tight in
the dried leaf of the Indian corn-plant, and tie the ends round with fine
silk. They are longer and fatter than those smoked in England, and the
Burmese girls at Tummu did not approve at all of some from Belat which
my husband gave them, as they were too strong for them.
The Myouk[13] came out to see us the day after we arrived. He was a
Burman, of course, but spoke English very well indeed, and was most
anxious to be of use to us. He was dressed in silk of the most delicate
shade of pink, with a yellow turban, and he rode in on a charming bay
pony, looking altogether very picturesque. We informed him that we
intended riding into Tummu, so he politely offered to escort us and show
us the way; and he rode back with us, and we found him a very pleasant
companion. I was delighted with Tummu, and we wandered about in the
village, looking at the pagodas, and investing in the curiosities to
be got in the place. We bought some lovely pieces of silk, and some
quaintly-carved wooden chessmen. The Burmese have a game of chess almost
identical with ours—the same number of pieces, and a board marked out in
black and white squares. The rules of the game, too, are almost exactly
the same, but the pieces are named differently, and carved to represent
elephants and pagodas, instead of castles and knights. The Manipuris also
played chess, and I once saw a lovely set of chessmen carved in ivory
and gold that the Maharajah possessed. The ones I got at Tummu at the
time of which I write were made of oak, and were evidently ancient, which
added a charm in my eyes, though the Myouk was very anxious to get a new
set made for me. However, I went on the principle of a bird in the hand
being better than two in the bush, and marched away with my trophies on
the spot. We were returning to our camp for breakfast, when the Myouk
informed us that there was another Sahib living in the place, a military
Sahib of the name of Grant. This was news indeed to us, as we had had
no idea when at Manipur that we had any neighbours nearer than Kohima,
ninety-six miles away from us, and here was someone only sixty-five—quite
a short journey.
My husband said he would go and look the ‘military Sahib’ up, but
before he could do so the Sahib in question had looked us up. I do not
think Mr. Grant, as he then was, ever expected to have a lady sprung on
him unawares, and he seemed a little bothered over his clothes, which
were those generally assumed by bachelors when they are safe from any
possibility of female intrusion in the solitude of a jungle outpost.
However, he soon remedied that. He went away to his bungalow after I
had made him promise that he would come back later; and when he did
return it was in attire worthy of better things than a camp dinner
with camp discomforts. But he was so bright and jolly that he cheered
us both up, and made all the difference during our four days at Tummu.
We went to tea with him in his tiny quarters, and had great jokes
over the ‘army ration’—sugar and butter—and the other etceteras of a
temporary encampment. He was quartered at Tummu in charge of a part of
his regiment, and considering the loneliness of his surroundings and the
distance he was away from any sort of civilization, we marvelled that he
was so cheery and full of spirits.
One day he came out to our camp at Mori Thana and helped me to make a
cake, which turned out afterwards, I am bound honestly to say, burnt to
a cinder. My husband made some cutting allusions to it, and told me that
it would save our having to invest in charcoal for some days to come,
and added many other remarks of the same kind; but, nothing daunted,
Mr. Grant and I set to work and carved up that cake, discovering as
a reward a certain amount in the middle which was quite eatable and
altogether excellent, which my husband also condescended to try after
some persuasion, and pronounced fair.
We were all very keen about orchids, and these grew abundantly on the
trees round about Tummu, so we went for long rambles, and returned always
with armfuls of them.
We were very sorry to bid good-bye to Mr. Grant at the end of our stay in
Burmah, and we tried to persuade him to get leave and come up to us for a
time for some duck-shooting on the Logtak Lake.
On the way back we got the news that we were to have two visitors, Mr.
Melville, the superintendent of the telegraph department in Assam; and
Lieutenant Simpson, of the 43rd Ghoorka Rifles, who had been ordered down
to Manipur from Kohima to inspect some military stores which had been
left behind at the Langthabal cantonment, when the troops went away. We
were very pleased at hearing they were coming, as even the ordinary two
or three visitors who had come every winter on duty in previous years
had failed us. Mr. Melville arrived about ten days after we returned
to Manipur from Tummu, but Mr. Simpson came almost at once. I had known
him well in Shillong, and we had always been great friends. He was very
clever, and a wonderful musician, and nothing pleased him better than
to be allowed to play the piano for hours, whatever he liked, without
interruption. My husband and he soon became good friends. Their tastes
were congenial, and Mr. Simpson was always delighted to shoot with him,
and he got on very well with the princes, especially the Jubraj, who
liked looking at his guns and talking military ‘shop’ with him. Several
shooting-parties were organized by the prince, and the Shikaris always
returned with good bags.
Mr. Melville stayed only three days with us, but he promised to return
for another two on his way back from Tummu, where he was going to inspect
his office. On Sunday, February 21 (the day Mr. Simpson arrived), in
the evening we were surprised by getting a telegram from the Chief
Commissioner, the gist of which was as follows:
‘_I propose to visit Manipur shortly. Have roads and
rest-houses put in order. Further directions and dates to
follow._’
We were electrified! Why was the Chief coming like this suddenly? The
telegram gave no details, and the one and only cause for his unexpected
visit that we could think of was that it had something to do with the
ex-Maharajah. This individual had been, during these months, in Calcutta,
from which place he had concocted and despatched more than one letter
to Government, begging for a reconsideration of his case, and help to
regain the kingdom which he had been unjustly deprived of by the Jubraj,
assisted by my husband’s influence.
Curiosity had naturally been rife at Manipur as to whether the exiled
monarch would be restored by our Government, and the Jubraj and Tongal
General had never ceased asking my husband his opinion about it. We knew
full well that if such a step were contemplated, the fulfilment of it
would be a difficult operation, as we were aware of the bitter feeling
which existed against the ex-Maharajah, and more especially against his
brother, the Pucca Senna. From private sources we had heard that arms,
ammunition, and food were being collected by order of the Jubraj inside
the palace.
This information came to me quite casually one day. We used to employ a
Manipuri Shikari[14] to shoot wild duck for us during the cold weather,
when my husband was not able to get them himself, and I sent for this man
one day, and told him what I wanted him to get for us. He said he was not
able to shoot, as the Jubraj had ordered him, as well as all the other
men in his village, to bring their guns into the palace arsenal, and that
all the villages in the neighbourhood had received similar commands.
I let the man go, and went and repeated the story to my husband, who
remarked that it looked as though preparations were being made to resist
the ex-Maharajah, should he return to Manipur. Of course, on the receipt
of the telegram from the Chief Commissioner, my husband had to inform the
durbar of his approaching visit. Curiosity reached an overwhelming pitch,
and the efforts of the Jubraj and his colleagues to find out what was
going to happen were unceasing. They never quite believed that my husband
was as ignorant as they were themselves about things, and invariably went
away much disturbed. We ourselves were just as curious and longing to
know what was really coming to pass.
In the meanwhile I had arranged to leave for England.
For more than three years our one talk had been of furlough and home, and
now that the date of sailing had been really fixed, it seemed almost
impossible to put it off in order to be at Manipur waiting to see the
results of the Chief’s visit. My husband said, however, that he thought
it would be more prudent if I arranged to go by an earlier steamer,
to be out of danger in the event of anything serious happening, and
consequently all the necessary arrangements were made for my departure.
I couldn’t help feeling that I would rather stay, however, and, as I
said to a friend in writing home, ‘see the fun,’ and my packing did not
progress satisfactorily at all.
Mr. Simpson was very keen to remain at Manipur, too; but all his work was
done there, and there was really no reason for his stopping. He wired
to the colonel of his regiment for permission to remain, and my husband
backed the request up, so eventually the necessary leave was granted,
and he was delighted at the mere idea of a disturbance which might mean
fighting. Of course the sudden alteration in my plans did not escape the
notice of the Jubraj, and in fact the durbar itself. It seemed as though
the whole State was on the _qui vive_, to discover any slight clue to the
mystery which surrounded the visit of the Chief Commissioner. My sudden
determination to depart was looked upon as possessing a very serious
meaning indeed. I was flying from danger. This was the prevailing idea,
and the Tongal General asked me point blank one day whether it was the
case or not, at the same time begging me to put off going till after the
Chief had left Manipur. The princes used every persuasion they could to
induce me to remain, and they and the old general came more than once
with messages from the Maharajah to the same effect. We explained to them
that my passage was taken and paid for in the steamer, and that the money
would be forfeited if I failed to sail on a certain date; but this had no
weight, and they did not seem to like my going away at all, and begged me
to stay on. These persuasions, added to my husband’s extreme reluctance
to let me go, and my own wish to remain, carried the day.
About ten days before Mr. Quinton arrived we heard for certain that the
object of his visit was _not_ the restoration of the ex-Maharajah, and
so, after much coaxing from me, my husband, thinking of course that no
danger could now be possible, allowed me to stay. I remember so well
how lightly we talked over coming events, and my husband saying that if
anything did happen, they would make me a nice safe place in one of the
cellars under the house. Could we but foresee what is behind the dark
veil with which the future is enveloped, and know that sometimes in our
idlest moments we are standing as it were on the brink of a grave, is
there one of us who would not rather die at once than struggle on into
the abyss of desolation and death awaiting us in the near future? And
yet it is undoubtedly a merciful Providence that orders our comings and
goings from day to day in such a manner that we cannot peer into the mist
of approaching years, and discover for ourselves what fate awaits each
one of us. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’
CHAPTER XIII.
Preparations for the Chief Commissioner’s visit—Despair
over the commissariat—Uncertainty of Mr. Quinton’s
intentions—Uneasiness of the Manipuris—They crowd into their
citadel—Decision of the Government of India, and their policy
against the Jubraj—Death of our dinner and our goat—Arrival
of Mr. Quinton and Colonel Skene—Mr. Grimwood ordered to
arrest the Jubraj—The Regent and his brother appear at the
Residency—The Manipuris suspect hostility—The old Tongal—Last
evening of peace.
Of course there were a great many preparations to be made in honour of
the Chief Commissioner’s visit. The question which occupied my attention
most was how to feed so many. The resources of the country in the way
of food were very limited. Beef was an impossibility, as no one was
allowed to kill a cow, and mutton was almost equally unprocurable. The
Jubraj kept a few sheep for their wool, and once in a way he killed
one or two of them to provide a dinner for all the Mussulman officers
and servants in the palace; but this occurred very seldom. We lived on
ducks and fowls all the year round, and managed fairly well; but having
to provide for sixteen people was a different matter altogether. My
husband made several valiant attempts to secure some sheep from Cachar,
and after much difficulty he got four, and we heard they had commenced
their march up to Manipur. But they never arrived alive. The drover was
a most conscientious person, and took the trouble to bring the four dead
carcases up to the Residency for our inspection, to assure us that the
poor animals had died natural deaths, which we thought very touching on
his part.
We were in despair over our commissariat, but at last that invaluable
domestic, the bearer, came to the rescue, and proposed that as we could
not get genuine mutton, we should invest in a goat. One often eats goat
in India, deluding one’s self with the idea that it is sheep, because it
has cost one as dear, and the native butcher swears that he is giving one
the best mutton in the district. But after you have kept house for a year
or two, and got to know the wily Oriental, you are able to distinguish
truly the sheep from the goats. Be that as it may, when one can’t get one
thing, one must content one’s self with the best substitute; and on this
occasion I was very grateful to the bearer for his timely suggestion,
and commissioned him to search the neighbourhood for the desired goat,
which after some days was discovered, and brought to the Residency for
inspection. We had a committee of four on it, and came to the conclusion
that it was a most estimable animal, and altogether worthy of providing
dinner for a Chief Commissioner. So we bought that goat, tethered him in
the kitchen-garden, and fed him every day and all day. He grew enormous,
and slept a great deal when he was not eating, which was his favourite
occupation.
Meanwhile the days went by, and at last only one week remained before the
Chief’s arrival, and by that time we knew that he was bringing an escort
of four hundred men with him and several officers; but we did not know
how long they were going to stay, or why so many were coming, or whether
they were going on to Burmah. A telegram had come some days previously,
telling my husband to get coolies ready to take the party to Tummu, and
he thought from that that it was Mr. Quinton’s intention to pay a visit
to that part of the valley; but everything seemed uncertain, and the
Manipuris were very curious to find out what it all meant.
About a week before the Chief arrived Mr. Gurdon was sent on to see my
husband, and talk over matters with him; but even then we were ignorant
of what was really intended, and it was only on the day before they all
arrived—Saturday, March 21—that my husband was told all by Mr. Quinton
himself, whom he had ridden out ten miles to meet. He started out in the
morning for Sengmai, the first halting-stage on the road to Kohima from
Manipur, and on his arrival he wired to me, telling me to expect eleven
to breakfast the next day, which, with ourselves, Mr. Melville, and Mr.
Simpson, made fifteen.
Mr. Simpson and I went for a ride that evening, and as we were returning
we both remarked the great number of Manipuri Sepoys we met, hurrying
into the citadel. They swarmed along the road, and on getting near the
big gate of the palace we had some difficulty in getting our horses
through the crowds which were streaming into the fort, and I was quite
glad when we got back safely into the Residency grounds again. My husband
returned about seven from Sengmai, very tired and very much worried
at all he had heard. I went into his little private office with him,
and there he told me of what was to take place on the morrow, making
me promise not to breathe a word of it to either Mr. Melville or Mr.
Simpson, as it was to be kept a dead secret. He wrote off at once to
the Regent, telling him that the Chief Commissioner would hold a durbar
on the following day at twelve, at which he hoped all the princes would
appear, and then we went away and had dinner. It was difficult to talk
of other things while our minds were full of the information my husband
had received, and I was very glad when the evening ended, and our two
visitors had gone to bed.
It had been decided to recognise the regent as Maharajah, but his
brother, the Jubraj, was to be arrested at the durbar the next day, taken
out of the country, and banished for several years. That was the news my
husband brought. It has been hinted of late by some that the friendship
which we had both entertained for the Jubraj was _infra dig._, and
contrary to the usual mode of procedure adopted by Anglo-Indian officials
in their intercourse with the rulers of native states. But when first we
went to Manipur, my husband was told that he must endeavour to establish
friendly feelings between the princes and himself, and that he was to
make a point of becoming acquainted with their language, in order to
acquire an influence for good over each member of the Maharajah’s family
and over the state itself.
I do not think there was ever any loss of dignity or unbecoming
familiarity in my husband’s friendship for the Jubraj. Full well that
prince, and all the other members of the durbar, knew that where things
went wrong they would not escape his notice and reproof, even as when
they went right he would give praise where praise was due; and if such
a friendship were distasteful and unusual in similar circumstances, why
was it never commented on by those in whose power it was to approve
or disapprove, and who knew that it existed? Small wonder was it that
we were both very sorry to hear of the fate which was in store for the
Jubraj. We remembered all the little acts of courtesy and kindness which
he had performed to help make our lonely existence brighter, isolated
as we were from any English friends, and we knew how much he would feel
being sent out of Manipur at so short a notice. However, we could do
nothing by talking it over, and so went to rest ourselves, resolving to
think no more about it until the next day.
The morning of the 22nd broke clear and beautiful over the valley. The
place had never looked more lovely. Clusters of yellow roses blossomed
on the walls of the house, and the scent of the heliotrope greeted me as
I went into the veranda to watch my husband start to meet Mr. Quinton.
There was a delightful sense of activity about the place, and one felt
that something of more than ordinary importance was about to take place;
white tents peeped out from amongst the trees surrounding the house, and
the camp prepared for the Sepoys stretched along under our wall at the
end of the lake. Mr. Simpson, and I strolled down the drive, out into the
road, to see the preparations in honour of Mr. Quinton’s coming. Chairs
were placed near the principal palace gate, and a carpet, and a table
with flowers on it; and there were a great many Manipuri Sepoys lining
the road by which he was expected to arrive.
I was called back to the house by the bearer with a piece of intelligence
which almost took my breath away—_the goat was dying_! I raced back to
the Residency, and rushed to the scene of action. There on the ground
lay the goat, breathing his last, and with his departing spirit went all
my dreams of legs of mutton, chops and cutlets. I sent to the house for
bottles of hot beer and quarts of brandy, and I poured gallons of liquid
down the creature’s throat; but all to no purpose, and after giving one
last heartrending groan, he expired at my feet. I could have wept. The
pains that had been taken with that goat to make it fat and well-favoured
for the delectation of my friends! and then that it should shuffle off
this mortal coil on the very day fixed for its execution was altogether
heartrending. I think I really should have found relief in tears, had not
my attention been aroused by the sound of the salute being fired from the
palace, which meant that the Chief and his party had appeared in sight.
So I turned away sadly, after giving orders to have the creature buried,
and proceeded to the house, where I met Mr. Simpson and Mr. Melville.
They both expressed much sympathy, but we could not help seeing the funny
side of the affair, and ended by laughing very heartily over the sad end
to my mutton scheme.
Twelve times did the gun boom from the palace, and by the time the
twelfth had sounded, Mr. Quinton, accompanied by Colonel Skene and
my husband, had arrived at the house, followed shortly by the other
officers, who had remained at the camp to see their men comfortably
housed and settled. We all went in to breakfast, but I noticed that my
husband seemed troubled about something, as he scarcely spoke at all, and
I wondered what fresh news he had heard. However, I had no opportunity
of speaking to him at all, and the conversation flowed merrily round the
table. I knew very few of the Chief Commissioner’s party, as all the
officers belonging to the 42nd Ghoorka Rifles were total strangers to me.
Of the rest, Mr. Brackenbury and I were perhaps the oldest friends. He
had been stationed at Manipur before, when we first came to the place,
and we had seen a great deal of him, so were glad that he had come on
this occasion.
As soon as breakfast was over, preparations were made for the durbar, and
the work of the day began. I had no opportunity of speaking to my husband
until he was dressing for the ceremony, and then I went and asked him
what was bothering him; and he told me that _he_ had been ordered to
arrest the Jubraj at the close of the durbar. It is not for me to give
an opinion on this point at all, and whether such a course of action
was honourable or not; but it was only natural that my husband should
feel sorry that he had been chosen to carry out such a proceeding. To be
obliged to arrest a man himself with whom he had been on friendly terms
for nearly three years, and see him treated like a common felon, without
being able to defend himself, was naturally a hard task, and my husband
felt it bitterly.
I summoned up courage to ask whether some other officer might not make
the arrest, as it had to be made; but was told that the Jubraj would
probably feel it less if my husband did it, as they were good friends.
Precautions were taken to prevent his escaping. The doors of the durbar
room were all locked with the exception of the one by which the princes
would enter, and guards were stationed in the adjoining rooms, as well
as all round the house and in the verandas. Most of the officers were
ignorant of what was intended, and they were joking with me, and trying
to find out whether I were in the secret or not, while we were waiting
for the Maharajah to arrive.
Meanwhile the written orders of the Government of India had to be
translated into Manipuri, and for this purpose two of the office clerks
and the Burmese interpreter were brought to the Residency and given the
papers to translate. The orders were lengthy, and the translation of
them took some time. Each of the clerks had a sentry placed over him,
and they all had to swear an oath that they would not divulge one word
to anyone of the contents of the papers given them to translate. Some
time before they were completed the regent and _all_ his brothers arrived
at the Residency gate. I have laid particular stress on the word _all_,
because it has been said that the Jubraj did not accompany his brother
on this occasion, though subsequent evidence has since appeared showing
that he was really present with the rest. Had there been no reason for
keeping the princes waiting at the gate, things might have ended very
differently. But that delay enabled some of the Manipuri Sepoys to gain
admission into the Residency grounds, from where they could take note
of all the proceedings. They made good use of their opportunities,
marked the distribution of our forces, saw the Ghoorkas lining the
entrance-steps, and the officers in uniform in attendance outside. Some
of them even strolled round to the back of the house, and there they saw
the same preparations—Sepoys on the steps, and guards about the grounds.
Of course the Manipuris did not keep this to themselves, but made their
way out again to the Jubraj, and told him of all they had seen; and
he took the opportunity to return to his house with his brother, the
Senaputti, giving out as an excuse that he felt too ill to remain waiting
about in the hot sun. He had not been well for some time before, but
whether he really felt as indisposed on this occasion as he affirmed
is open to doubt. He had already made the acquaintance of the Chief
Commissioner, and so had the Senaputti, as the latter had ridden out to
Sengmai on the Saturday to meet Mr. Quinton, and the Jubraj had also met
him seven miles out of Manipur on Sunday morning.
When, therefore, the regent was asked to come on to the Residency, he
came, accompanied by his youngest brother only, Prince Zillah Singh, the
Tongal General, and some other less important ministers. As soon as my
husband saw that his highness had arrived without the two elder brothers,
he informed Mr. Quinton, who sent out word to the regent that the durbar
could not be held without the attendance of the Jubraj and Senaputti.
My husband had a long conversation with the regent before his highness
came into the house, and the latter agreed to send for his brothers to
the palace, coming himself into the Residency to await their arrival. It
seemed a long time before the messenger returned from the palace. The old
Tongal was so seedy at the time that we wondered at his having been able
to put in an appearance at all. I went into the drawing-room, and found
the old man asleep on the floor, and got him to lie down on a sofa with a
pillow under his head, where he very soon slumbered peacefully. At last
the regent’s messenger returned with the reply from the Jubraj that he
was too ill to leave his house, and hoped Mr. Quinton would excuse his
appearing; so the durbar was postponed till the next morning, Monday,
March 23, at eight o’clock, and it was impressed upon his highness
that his two brothers _must_ attend. They then went away. There is
little doubt that, from this moment, some inkling of what was intended
penetrated the minds of the princes and their ministers, just as all the
officers guessed that it was the Jubraj who was ‘wanted.’
However, business being over for that day, we set to work to amuse
ourselves as best we could, strolling about the grounds, and into the
bazaar in the evening. We had already arranged to have a polo-match one
day during Mr. Quinton’s visit, in which the princes were to play; and
the regent had promised to have a review of his troops, which was always
a pretty sight. In addition to this, the band had been lent to us to
play every evening at dinner; and we were to have a Manipuri nautch on
the Monday, followed by a Naga dance the next evening, if the weather
permitted. This programme had been drawn up by my husband and myself two
or three weeks before Mr. Quinton’s arrival, but it has since come to
light that the Jubraj suspected us of treachery in asking him to arrange
and be present at these nautches.
[Illustration: NATIVES OF THE MANIPUR HILLS.]
We had never seen so many people in the Residency at once as there were
that Sunday night at dinner—fifteen in all. I felt rather forlorn, being
the only lady present, and wished that I had even one familiar spirit in
the shape of another woman to keep me company.
The band was very much appreciated, and everything seemed very bright and
cheery. No thought of evil troubled any of us, for little we knew that it
was the last evening we were to spend in peace there all together.
The next day Mr. Melville was to leave us. I had tried to persuade him to
stay longer, as he had only been two days with us before, and had seen
nothing of the place; but his time was precious, and he had his work to
do in a great many other places, so we could not get him to alter his
arrangements. He agreed to compromise matters by remaining until the
afternoon of the following day, the 23rd, and about eleven the party
broke up and retired to rest.
CHAPTER XIV.
Up early on the eventful morning—The Jubraj does not attend
the Durbar—Visit of Mr. Grimwood to the Jubraj—Finds him in
high fever—Matters assume a serious aspect—Thoroughfares
deserted—Terrific thunderstorm—Our servants take French
leave—My ayah deserts—Melancholy thoughts—Lovely moonlight
night—A Manipuri arrives to spy out our doings—The night before
the outbreak—Attack on the Residency—Capture of the Jubraj’s
house—Anxiety about Lieutenant Brackenbury—Stray bullets find
their billet in the Residency—Attack gets hot, and big guns
play on the Residency—We have to take to the cellars—The Regent
invites Mr. Quinton to an interview.
It is now some time since the events took place which I am recording
here, and not one vestige of the past remains to help me in my work, not
a single scrap of writing or note of any kind; yet the smallest detail
of those few terrible days is engraved so indelibly upon my memory that
it seems but the occurrence of yesterday, and I need no reference to help
me in my description of a catastrophe which almost outrivals some of the
horrors of the Mutiny.
We were all up early on the morning of the 23rd. The durbar was fixed to
take place at eight, and the rooms had to be prepared for the ceremony.
But when eight o’clock came, it brought only a message from the palace,
saying that the Jubraj was too ill to leave his house, and therefore the
regent had not come; so the red cloth arranged for his reception was put
away, and a consultation took place between the Chief and my husband as
to what the next move should be.
It was decided to make one last attempt to get the princes to attend, and
then if that failed, other measures were to be resorted to. But twelve
o’clock brought no better results, and about four my husband was sent to
the palace to see the Jubraj, and convey to him personally the orders
of the Government, and use all his influence to persuade the prince to
give himself up quietly, telling him at the same time that the proposed
banishment was not to last for ever, but that it would depend chiefly
on his good behaviour, and eventually, at the death of his brother, the
regent, he (the Jubraj) would be allowed to return to Manipur, and ascend
the throne as Maharajah. It was a veritable hornets’ nest into which
my husband ventured that afternoon, accompanied only by his friend Mr.
Simpson. He would not take even a single orderly with him, knowing in
what an excited state the whole palace was at that time. It was crowded
with Sepoys, collected, the regent told him, for the review which we had
desired to witness. I got very anxious about them both when more than
an hour had passed and they had not returned, but when my husband did
come back I knew at a glance that his mission had failed. He said the
Jubraj was certainly very unwell. He had had some difficulty at first in
persuading the prince to come and see him at all, but after finding out
from his people that the two Sahibs had come quite alone, the Jubraj had
himself carried down to see them in a litter. The exertion caused him to
faint, and my husband said that there was no doubt as to his illness, and
that he found him in high fever.
Shortly before this visit to the palace took place, Mr. Melville started
off on the first stage of his journey to Kohima. He intended travelling
as far as Sengmai that day, a distance of ten miles. My husband tried to
make him reconsider his decision to go, and I added my persuasions to
his. We did not like the look of things at all, and how matters would end
was, to say the least, very uncertain.
I remember so well our all standing on the steps of the Residency that
afternoon, watching the coolies collecting Mr. Melville’s luggage,
and begging him to remain even one day longer with us, for fear of
anything going wrong; and I remember equally well his answer: ‘Thank you
very much, Mrs. Grimwood,’ he said, ‘but do not fear for me. I am not
important enough to be captured by these Manipuris. I shall get on all
right, never fear’; and in a few more minutes he had left us. But the
thoughts of his going away like that, alone, without any guard to protect
him, troubled me more than once that afternoon, and I could not get it
out of my head. Matters assumed a serious aspect indeed when my husband
returned about six o’clock from the palace with the news that he had been
unsuccessful with regard to the Jubraj. There was only one way, then,
out of the difficulty, and that was to place the affair in the hands
of the military, and apply force where persuasion had failed. It was a
council of war, indeed, and everything seemed to combine to fill me with
sensations of dread for what was going to happen. I could not feel the
excitement that took possession of the men when the chances of a probable
fight became known. Such an idea filled me with alarm and horror. The
place had a deserted look about it, and on the principal road, as a rule
crowded with people at that hour, not a soul was visible.
The clouds had been gathering up all the afternoon, and about seven
o’clock a terrific thunderstorm occurred, and darkness set in, which was
only lit up now and then by brilliant flashes of lightning. I busied
myself about the house, where I found a state of confusion reigning. A
number of the servants had taken French leave and departed, scenting
danger.
My old ayah was among the first to go. She had been with me four years,
and had followed me about faithfully till now; but at the first sign
of danger she packed up her belongings and went off. I wondered where
she had taken refuge, for she had a good many enemies, and was not a
native of Manipur, so had no home or relations in the place to whom she
could fly for protection. I felt her desertion very much. She was only a
native, but she was at any rate a woman, and better than no one in a case
like that. However, there was no good to be got out of thinking over her
departure, and I had as much as I could do as it was to keep the other
servants up to the mark, and get them to understand that dinner that
evening would have to be gone through the same as usual. Mr. Quinton and
three of the others amused themselves by playing whist until dinner-time,
as, of course, going out was an impossibility; and I went to the kitchen
to superintend the arrangements there, and to make preparations for the
next day, as I knew that if there were fighting going on, I should be
left without a single servant, and so resolved to get as much work out of
them while they were there as was possible. We made a quantity of soup
that night, as I thought it would be useful, and cooked some fowls to
provide us with something to eat the next day in case of accidents. And
then we had dinner.
No one seemed inclined to speak much that evening. With me conversation
was almost an impossibility, and the rest were too excited about the
morrow to be able to talk and laugh as they had done the day before. It
was a relief to me when dinner was over. I felt nervous and low-spirited,
and very lonely, quite out of place amongst those men whose profession it
was to fight, and who were longing for the next morning.
Thoughts of England and of all whom I loved there, flocked through my
mind, and I wondered what they would say if they could see us then, and
know the possible danger that threatened us and our home. My husband
was troubled at the thoughts of my being in the place at such a time,
and he blamed himself for having agreed to my staying, though I had
done so of my own free will. Even then we did not dream of any really
serious ending. We expected that the Jubraj would fight well—in fact, the
officers and Sepoys were hoping that the resistance would be strong, and
my husband was afraid that the house might get knocked about, and some
of our property destroyed; but serious alarm for our own safety never
entered our heads. This was the night of the 23rd, the date that we had
originally fixed for the Manipuri nautch to take place; but under the
circumstances we did not think it likely that the girls would come. Mr.
Brackenbury amused us by singing comic songs, accompanying himself on his
banjo after dinner, and all went to bed early, as everyone had to be up
at three the next morning.
It was a lovely moonlight night, and my husband and I walked up and down
in the garden for some time after our guests had gone. I felt restless
and unhappy, but he did his best to reassure me and make me believe that
we should all be perfectly safe. Just before we were preparing to go in,
the sentry challenged at the gate, and appeared a few minutes afterwards
with a Manipuri, who had been sent from the palace to inquire whether we
wished to have the nautch or not, saying at the same time that the girls
who were to dance were waiting outside in the road if we wanted them.
Of course we told him it was much too late to think of such a thing at
that time, and the man left the place. We believed that he had really
been sent to spy out the land, and find out what preparations, if any, we
had been making. If that were his mission, he must have been seriously
disappointed, for the whole place, and everyone in it, was wrapt in
slumber, with the exception of my husband and myself, and we very often
walked about the grounds late on moonlight nights, so there was nothing
unusual in our doing so on this occasion. There were a few extra
sentries on guard, but chiefly at the back of the house, and the presence
of the Chief Commissioner was quite sufficient cause for a larger guard
than usual.
At last we turned in too, one to sleep as unconcernedly as ever, knowing
not that it was his last night upon earth; the other to lie awake,
listening to the hours as they were struck out on the gong down at the
quarter-guard, and wonder what the ending of the next day would bring.
I never closed my eyes all through the watches of that night—the last I
was destined to spend in Manipur—and when three o’clock came I woke my
husband, and told him that the hour had come when we were all to get up,
and the work of day commenced.
It was a bitterly cold morning, and quite dark. I dressed quickly,
putting on a warm, tight-fitting winter dress. We had a sort of scratch
breakfast of eggs and bread-and-butter about 3.30 a.m.; but most of the
officers had theirs at the camp, and started from there, so that I did
not know when they actually left to commence the attack. My husband
accompanied Colonel Skene, much to my distress, as I thought he would
have stayed at the Residency, being a civilian; but he seemed just as
keen on going as the others, and I had to make the best of it. Mr.
Quinton, Mr. Cossins, and I all went off to the telegraph-office, which
was situated at the end of the drive, about three hundred yards from
the Residency. It was well built and fairly strong, the basement being
made of stone, and there was a similar building on the opposite side,
which my husband used as an office for himself, the lower half of which
contained the treasury. Here we took up our position, going up into the
telegraph-office first to send a message to the Government of India,
giving details of all that had occurred up to date. Mr. Cossins, who was
acting as secretary to the Chief Commissioner, brought the telegram down,
and while we were waiting and watching the Baboo[15] despatch it, we
heard the first shot fired in the palace, which was followed up quickly
by others, and we knew then that the fight had begun.
By this time the dawn was breaking, and streaks of daylight were
dispelling the darkness around. It seemed difficult to me to realize what
was really taking place. I had heard firing in the palace so often that
it seemed almost impossible to understand that a sterner game was being
played now, and one which was to cost both sides so dear. Only half the
telegram had been sent, when we were startled by the sudden advent of a
bullet through the office window at our elbows. It crashed through the
glass, breaking it to pieces, and went into the wall opposite. My heart
went to my mouth with fright, and I left the place with considerable
rapidity, taking up a more secure position below, where I was fairly
protected by the stone basement of the building. Mr. Cossins occupied
his time in taking several journeys up to the house, where he mounted
to the roof to discover whether he could see what was going on inside
the palace wall; but it was impossible, as the Jubraj’s house, which we
knew was being attacked, was some distance off, and hidden from us by
intervening buildings. It was situated near the outer wall of the palace,
and our men seemed to have taken a very short time in getting up to it.
The whole palace was fortified. Five walls surrounded the Maharajah’s
enclosure. The outer of these was much broken, and of no great height;
but the inner ones were very strong, built of brick and supplied with
bastions, and they surrounded the inner palace on all four sides. On
three sides of the outer wall was a canal, very deep and wide. It was
here that the great boat-races took place every year, and the water was
always kept weeded and clean for those events. The whole citadel was
built with a view of resisting attack in the time before Burmah was
annexed, when armies of raiders used to come down upon Manipur with
hostile intent; and it was a place which could easily be held against an
attacking force, provided big guns were not brought to bear upon it. The
Manipuris were well armed, and supplied with ammunition. The Maharajah
had four mountain guns which had been presented to his father by our
Government in return for services which he had rendered in times gone by.
The Jubraj understood perfectly how to work these guns. We had seen him
fire them himself for our amusement on an occasion already described, and
we knew he would be perfectly cognizant of their powers of destruction
when the opportunity occurred to bring them into play against us. Of
course we, who were left at the Residency, did not know what was going on
round the Jubraj’s house, where all the firing seemed to come from. From
time to time stray bullets came over our heads where we sat down at the
telegraph-office. I thought it was very exciting then, and the little
Ghoorkas, who had remained to keep guard over the place, were constantly
running out on to the road in front of our entrance-gate, to see whether
they could discover what was happening. They did not like being inactive
at all.
About half-past ten my husband returned, and came to the treasury to get
out some of the reserve ammunition which had been stored there. He only
stayed a few minutes, talking to me before rejoining Colonel Skene. He
told me that the Jubraj’s house had been captured after a good fight, and
that our men were in possession of it, and the principal gateway besides,
and had taken a good many prisoners. I asked if anyone had been hurt, and
he said there were grave rumours about Lieutenant Brackenbury. No one
seemed to be certain of his whereabouts, while some affirmed that he had
been wounded, and others that he had been killed. We were very anxious
about him, but my husband said that it was all uncertain, and he might be
perfectly safe all the time; and of course we hoped he was all right.
About twelve Mr. Quinton and I went up to the house, but long before
going he had made another attempt to get the telegram to the Government
of India despatched, and had found that the wires had been cut on all
sides, so all hope of communication from that source was abandoned. We
were rather hungry by twelve, as no one had eaten much at the hasty
repast at three in the morning, and we were very glad of some hot tea and
sandwiches now. I went on a voyage of discovery round the house. One or
two servants still remained, but they seemed very frightened, and were
saying many prayers to their gods for their safety. A stray bullet or so
had hit the walls of the house, knocking off some of the plaster, but
otherwise everything looked the same as usual.
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF MANIPUR.]
We returned to the office in about an hour, after I had seen that all
the preparations for lunch were made. The cook had departed, but the
bearer and I between us managed to get things ready in a fashion. I
took a book to read with me, and busied myself in that manner until,
about one o’clock, Colonel Skene and some of his officers, with my
husband, returned from the scene of action. Our first inquiries were
for Mr. Brackenbury, and then it became evident that something serious
had happened to him, and all our fears were aroused. After that, things
seemed to assume quite a different aspect, for the officers were all
talking so gravely together, and did not seem quite satisfied with the
way things were going.
However, we went back to the Residency to get something to eat. All had
returned with the exception of Mr. Simpson and Captain Butcher, who were
still at the Jubraj’s house, and Mr. Brackenbury, whose exact whereabouts
were unknown. We had commenced lunch, when my husband asked me if I would
give orders that some food should be sent to the two officers who were
not able to leave their posts, and I went away to a little room adjoining
the dining-room and commenced cutting sandwiches for them, as the
servants had disappeared, and one had to get everything for one’s self or
go without.
I had been busily engaged for about ten minutes, when I heard a sound
which filled me with alarm, and a bullet crashed through the window above
my head. It frightened me more than the one at the telegraph-office had
done, and I dropped my knife, left the sandwiches as they were, and
rushed into the dining-room. All the officers meanwhile had gone out, and
had found that the Manipuris had crept round to the back of the Residency
and commenced an attack upon us, using as cover the Naga village which
lay between our grounds and the river. This was a clever move on their
part, and it was some time before the troops could drive them back, as
most of our men were engaged in holding the posts inside the palace
captured early in the morning, and this left only a small guard for the
Residency, treasury offices, and Sepoys’ camp. Eventually our party set
fire to the Naga village, and drove the Manipuris out. Bullets had made
their way through the window-panes and doors of the dining-room, and had
smashed some of the breakfast-things and the glass on the sideboard. It
was difficult to find out the most secure place in the house, as the
firing was hot in the front of the Residency by this time, and the walls,
being only lath and plaster, were little or no protection.
My husband suggested my descending to the cellars, which were under the
house and built of stone; but I did not like the idea, and remembered
how scornful I had been when we had talked over matters weeks before,
and he had joked about the snug corner he would make ready for me in
the basement of the house. So I made up my mind to remain above-board,
so to speak, until the worst came to the worst. It was heart-rending
to see the work of destruction which was proceeding in the different
rooms meanwhile. The windows were broken, and every now and then bullets
crashed into the rooms, smashing different things—first a picture, then a
vase, then a photograph. All my beloved household gods seemed coming to
grief under my very eyes, and I was powerless to save them. We did try
to collect some of the most valuable of our belongings together and put
them away in a heap in the durbar room, which at that time had escaped
with only one broken pane; but it was dangerous work going into the front
rooms to remove them, for as the afternoon went on the firing became
hotter, and bullets rained into the house at every second.
It must have been about half-past four that the big guns began to be
played against us. It had been found necessary to concentrate the whole
of our force on the Residency and out-buildings, such as the treasury and
offices, and this entailed abandoning all the positions captured in the
early part of the day inside the outer wall of the palace, and bringing
all the men together. The wounded had to be recovered from all directions
and conveyed to the hospital, which was some distance from the Residency.
Lieutenant Brackenbury had been discovered lying on the bank of the river
which flowed north of the palace, where he had fallen shortly after the
attack was made early in the morning. He had mistaken the direction,
having got the wrong side of the wall near the Jubraj’s house, from which
point he had been exposed to a heavy fire from the enemy. It was only
a marvel that he was still alive when eventually discovered, for he had
remained where he fell the whole of that day, and the Manipuris had never
ceased firing at him as he lay. When his exact whereabouts did become
known, it was a difficult and dangerous task to remove him. Efforts had
been made by some of the Sepoys to drag him away, and a native officer
had been mortally wounded in the attempt. At last, about four o’clock in
the afternoon, he was rescued and brought into the hospital, and it was
found that he had received terrible injuries, being wounded in several
places.
The sound of the first shell which whizzed over the Residency made me
speechless with terror. I had heard the boom of the guns in the morning,
and knew that they had been used to try and drive Captain Butcher’s party
out of the Jubraj’s house, which had been captured; but they had sounded
some distance off, and I had not realized how terrible they could be
until they were turned against our own house.
The cellars were by this time unavoidable. My husband told me that we
should have to make some sort of rough hospital in one of them, as the
Residency hospital, where the wounded had been taken, was built of
plaster and would not be bullet-proof; so we set to work to get blankets
and sheets down from the house, and everything we thought might be useful.
Meanwhile shells were doing dreadful damage over our heads, and we
were afraid they might set fire to the thatch and force us out of our
temporary shelter. Luckily most of them went over the house into the
garden at the back, where they could not do such serious damage; but the
noise the guns made, added to the other firing, which had never ceased,
was deafening.
There was not the slightest doubt by this time that our position was
about as bad as it could very well be. I seemed paralyzed with fear,
and it was only by forcing myself to do something, and never thinking or
imagining for one moment what the end of it all might be, that I kept
my senses sufficiently to be able to make an effort to help the rest. I
heard that the wounded were to be brought up to the house immediately, as
the hospital was getting too hot for them to remain in it. Poor fellows!
they had endured so much as it was in getting there, that it seemed very
hard to be obliged to move them again so soon, and take them up to the
Residency.
There were a good many of us in the cellar by this time—Mr. Quinton,
Colonel Skene, my husband and myself, Mr. Cossins, and Mr. Gurdon. It
was about seven o’clock, and a lovely evening. The sun was just setting,
and the red glow of the sky seemed to illuminate the landscape around
and the faces of the colonel and my husband as they stood in the doorway
talking together in low tones. It was no difficult matter to read what
was written on both their faces, and I did not dare ask what was going to
happen.
At last my husband came and told me that we were to leave the Residency,
and try and find our way to Cachar. It seemed worse to me to think of
going out of the house than to remain there; but whatever was to take
place had to be at once, and there was no time to spend in giving way to
the terrible fear which possessed me. However, a further consultation was
held, and it was decided to make a truce with the regent, and put an end
to hostilities by coming to some terms with him. A letter was written,
which the Chief Commissioner signed. It ran as follows:
‘_On what condition will you cease firing on us, and give
us time to communicate with the Viceroy, and repair the
telegraph?_’
While this letter was being written, the colonel had ordered our buglers
to sound the ‘cease fire,’ which they did at once; but it was some
time before the Manipuris followed suit. At last their guns ceased, and
all was quiet. Then my husband went out with the letter, and called a
Manipuri off the wall to take it to the Jubraj. The man went away with
it, and my husband returned to the Residency.
[Illustration: FRANK ST. CLAIR GRIMWOOD.
FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY VANDYK.
LONDON: RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, 1891]
Some minutes later a message came to say that the regent wished to see
Mr. Quinton and talk over matters with him; and this message was followed
by a letter written in Bengali, which contained an acknowledgment of the
Chief’s letter, and a proposal to the effect that we should surrender our
arms if the Manipuris agreed to cease firing. There was some discussion
about the translation of part of this letter, and Mr. Quinton proposed
that the Jubraj should be called upon to explain the meaning of the
passage in question, and asked whether it would be possible to see him.
Meanwhile the Chief Commissioner’s party, consisting of himself, Colonel
Skene, Mr. Cossins, Lieutenant Simpson, and my husband, had gone down
to the office at our entrance gate, and waited there while the regent’s
letter was being translated. Mr. Simpson had gone of his own accord, as
he wished to accompany my husband, and I had begged to be allowed to go
with him too; but he said I was safer where I was, and bade me good-bye,
telling me to keep a brave heart, that the firing was at an end, and
peace about to be restored; and he told me to try and get some rest, as I
looked so tired. I never saw him again.
CHAPTER XV.
Mr. Brackenbury—Scenes in the little cellar—Destruction of our
home—Another moonlight night with a difference—Reopening of the
attack on the Residency—Death of Mr. Brackenbury—Preparations
to escape.
I remained where he had left me, alone for some minutes, though some
of the officers were standing just outside the door of the cellar
where I was sitting. It seemed so hard that I could not go with my
husband. I feared being left alone without him, and felt very lonely and
broken-hearted among so many men, mostly strangers to me. I knew, too,
that they would look upon me as an extra burden, and wish me very far
away.
I was roused to action by the doctor, who had taken advantage of the
truce to get his wounded brought up from the hospital to the house,
and had come up first to see what kind of a place could be got ready. I
showed him the cellars, for there were several, which all communicated
with each other, and formed the entire basement of the house.
Shortly afterwards the Kahars[16] arrived, carrying poor Mr. Brackenbury
on a mattress, and the others followed fast, so that the small cellar was
very soon quite full of men lying side by side on the stone floor. The
blankets and sheets that we had already collected were very useful, and
I made several journeys up to the house, and gathered up every kind of
covering from every direction, and all the pillows I could find. A little
cooking-stove proved of great service. I fixed it securely upon a table
in one corner which I reserved for cooking operations.
The soup we had made on the previous day was in great request.
Fortunately there was a large quantity of it, to which I added the
contents of five or six tins which I found in the store-room. Milk was
the difficulty. All the cows were out in the grounds, and many of them
had strayed away altogether and we could not get any milk from them, so
were obliged to fall back on condensed milk, of which we also had several
tins.
Some of the men were terribly wounded, but poor Mr. Brackenbury was by
far the worst. His legs and arms were all broken, and he had several
other injuries besides. It seemed a marvel that he was still alive and
fully conscious to all that was going on around him. The doctor attended
to him first of all, and had bound up his broken limbs, and done as much
as possible to alleviate his sufferings; but it was a terrible sight to
see the poor lad in such agony, and be so powerless to lessen it in any
way. He was very thirsty, and drank a good deal of soup and milk, but we
could not get him into a comfortable position. One minute he would lie
down, and the next beg to be lifted up; and every now and then his ankle
would commence bleeding, and cause him agony to have it bound up afresh.
His face was gray and drawn, and damp dews collected on his forehead from
the great pain he was suffering.
That scene will never be forgotten—the little cellar with a low roof, and
the faces of the wounded lying together on the floor. We did not dare
have a bright light for fear of attracting attention to that particular
spot, and the doctor did his work with one dim lantern. Such work as it
was, too! Every now and then he asked me to go outside for a few moments
while the dead were removed to give a little more space for the living.
There were some terrible sights in the cellar that night—I pray I may
never see any more like them; but being able to help the doctor was a
great blessing to me, as it occupied my attention, and gave me no time
to think of all the terrible events of the day, and the wreck of our
pretty home. I was very weary, too—in fact, we all were—and when at about
half-past ten I asked everybody to come and get some sort of a dinner,
they seemed much more inclined to go to sleep, and no one ate much.
The dinner was not inviting, but it was the best that could be got under
the circumstances, for I had had to do it all myself. One or two of the
servants still remained, but they cowered down in corners of the house,
and refused to move out or help me at all. Perhaps had we known that it
was our last meal for nearly forty-eight hours, we should have taken care
to make the most of it; but no thought of what was coming entered our
minds, and long before the melancholy meal was ended most of the officers
were dozing, and I felt as though I could sleep for a week without waking.
We all separated after dinner about the house. I went back to the
hospital for a little, and found the doctor wanted more milk, so I
returned to the dining-room, where I was joined by Captain Boileau, and
we sat there for some time mixing the condensed milk with water, and
filling bottles with it, which I took downstairs. It was quieter there
than it had been. The wounded had all been attended to, and most of them
had fallen asleep. Even Mr. Brackenbury was dozing, and seemed a little
easier, and only one man was crying out and moaning, and he was mortally
wounded in the head. So finding I could do no more there, I went upstairs
again, resolving, if possible, to go to my room and lie down for a little
while and sleep, for I was very tired.
I went sorrowfully through our once pretty drawing-room, where everything
was now in the wildest confusion, and saw all the destruction which had
overtaken my most cherished possessions. There are those who imagine that
in a case like this a woman’s resource would be tears; but I felt I could
not weep then. I was overwhelmed at the terrible fate which had come
upon us, and too stunned to realize and bewail our misfortunes.
Perhaps the great weariness which overcame me may have helped me to look
passively on my surroundings, and I walked through the house as one in a
dream, longing only to get to some haven of rest, where I could forget
the misery of it all in sleep.
I wended my way to the bedroom through a small office of my husband’s,
but when I reached the door I found it would not open, and discovered
that part of the roof had fallen in, caused by the bursting of a shell.
So I gave up the idea of seeking rest there, and retired to the veranda.
I went down the steps and stood outside in the moonlight for a few
minutes. It was a lovely night, clear and bright as day! One could
scarcely imagine a more peaceful scene. The house had been greatly
damaged, but that was not apparent in the moonlight, and the front had
escaped the shells which had gone through the roof and burst all round at
the back. The roses and heliotrope smelt heavy in the night air, and a
cricket or two chirped merrily as usual in the creepers on the walls.
I thought of the night before, and of how my husband and I had walked
together up and down in the moonlight, talking of what the day was to
bring, and how little he had thought of such a terrible ending; and I
remembered that poor lad lying wounded in the cellar below now, who only
twenty-four hours ago had been the life and soul of the party, singing
comic songs with his banjo, and looking forward eagerly to the chances of
fighting that might be his when the morning came.
I wondered where my husband was, and why they had been away so long. They
would be hungry and tired, I thought, and might have waited to arrange
matters till the next day, as they had apparently been successful in
restoring peace. I had an idea of wandering as far as the gate to see
whether the party was visible, but on second thoughts I went back into
the veranda, and resolved to wait there until my husband should return.
There was one of the officers asleep in a chair close to me, and I was
about to follow his example, when Captain Boileau came out, and I went to
him and asked him if he would mind going down to the gate and finding out
whether he could hear or see anything of the Chief Commissioner’s party,
and if he came across any of them to say I wanted my husband. He went off
at once, and I fell into a doze in the chair.
It was about twelve o’clock at this time. I do not know how long I had
been asleep, when I was awaked suddenly by hearing the deafening boom of
the big guns again, and knew then that it was not to be peace.
For a few seconds I could not stir. Terror seemed to have seized hold of
me, and my limbs refused to move; but in a minute I recovered, and ran
through the house down to the cellar again, where everyone had become
alive to the fact that all was over for us. Where was my husband? What
had become of them all? This thought nearly drove me mad with anxiety.
I could not imagine what their fate had been, but I knew the anguish of
mind my husband would endure when the sound of those terrible guns would
tell him that we were being attacked again, as he knew we were almost
powerless to make any resistance, through lack of ammunition.
We knew that our one chance lay in retreating, as that move had been
meditated by Colonel Skene early in the evening, before the truce had
taken place; so after an hour had gone by the doctor began moving the
wounded out of the cellar, as an immediate retreat had been decided upon.
We were still without any definite tidings of the position of Mr. Quinton
and my husband, and the other officers who had accompanied them, and our
anxiety on their behalf increased every hour.
It took a long time to get all the wounded on to the grass outside. Mr.
Brackenbury was moved first. Poor lad! he begged so hard to be left in
peace where he was, and the moving caused him terrible agony. One by
one all the poor fellows were helped out, until only a few remained. I
gave my arm to one of these, and we were going out through the cellar
door, when we were met by four Kahars, carrying someone back into the
hospital. The moonlight shone down upon them as they came, and lit up the
white face of him they carried, and I saw that it was Mr. Brackenbury.
The movement had killed him, and he had died on the grass outside a few
seconds after leaving the cellar. Better thus than if he had lived a few
hours longer to bear the pain and torture of our terrible march; but it
made one’s heart ache to leave that young lad lying there dead, alone in
the darkened cellar. I went back there just before we left the place, and
covered him up gently with a sheet that was lying on the ground, and I
almost envied him, wrapped in the calm slumber of death, which had taken
all pain and suffering away.
I had no hope that we should ever succeed in making our escape, and it
seemed almost useless even to make the attempt. All was ready, however,
by this time for our departure, and I went out too, hoping that the
Manipuris would soon set fire to the house, which would prevent any
indignities being heaped upon the dead by their victorious enemies.
Outside the noise was deafening. Shells burst around us at every turn,
and kept striking the trees and knocking off great branches. All idea of
going up into the house had to be abandoned, so I could not get a hat or
cloak or anything for the journey before us, and had to start as I was.
Just before lunch-time I had taken off the close-fitting winter gown
which I had put on in the morning, and instead had arrayed myself in a
blue serge skirt and white silk blouse, which gave me more freedom for my
work in the hospital. I could not have chosen better as far as a walking
costume went, and should have been all right if only I had been able to
collect a few outdoor garments—hat, cloak, and boots, for instance. As
things happened, I was wearing on my feet thin patent leather slippers,
which were never meant for out-of-door use, and my stockings were the
ordinary flimsy kind that women generally wear. My dress had got soiled
already in the hospital, and was not improved by the march afterwards;
but I managed to get it washed when we eventually reached British
territory, and have it by me to this day. It will be preserved as an
interesting relic.
CHAPTER XVI.
Escape of the servants—Mr. Gurdon comes for me—Away from
shelter and one’s life in one’s hands—Over the hedge and across
the river—Lie in the ditch for shelter from shot—Fired on at
Burri Bazaar.
The bustle and confusion outside were great. The Sepoys were being
mustered into marching order, but around them on all sides people were
rushing about, knocking each other over in their eagerness to make good
their escape. These were chiefly servants, Bunnias,[17] and the many
followers who accumulate wherever a regiment goes.
I stood for some time watching them tearing away, until a sudden fear
took hold of me that I had been forgotten and left behind. I was
meditating going myself, but on second thoughts I remembered I had
promised the officers to remain where I was, and they had said they would
come for me; and just at that moment one of them came and told me that we
were to make a move.
Out in the open, away from the shelter of the house, with one’s life in
one’s hands, as it were, my senses nearly left me. The noise was awful,
for besides the bursting of the shells, the firing was heavier than it
had been before. I had not gone six yards from the house when a shell
exploded almost at my feet, knocking off some branches of a big tree
close by, and wounding me very slightly in the arm. I jumped behind the
tree, in the vain hope that its broad trunk might save me from further
injury, and there I remained for some seconds. The scurrying of those
going towards the river awoke me to my senses again, and off I went, too,
forgetting to look for my companion, from whom I had managed to get
separated.
It was no easy matter to get on to the Cachar road from the back of the
Residency, as there were many obstacles in the way. The inner garden was
separated from the outer compound by a tall hedge, composed of thorns and
sharp twigs. I had superintended the erection of this hedge myself. We
had kept a great many cows, and they were always making their way into
the flower-garden and destroying the rose-bushes. Nothing seemed to keep
them out until we made this thorn hedge, and that, as I remarked to my
husband when I took him to see it first, ‘was calculated to keep an army
of men out if it came to the point.’
Fortunately, by the time I arrived at this hedge it had become much
broken down, the result of the energy of those who had already gone
through it. I found a convenient hole, and got through with comparatively
little damage to my raiment; but my hands received a good many
scratches, and my poor stockings were dreadfully torn. However, on I
went, perfectly insensible as to who were travelling with me. The next
obstacle was a mud wall, low enough on our side, but with a six-foot
drop on the other. I found myself sitting on the top of this, wondering
how I was going to make the descent of the other side, when someone gave
me a gentle push, as a sort of warning that I was stopping the traffic,
and I slid gracefully down on the other side into the arms of a friendly
Bunnia, who also helped me down the river bank, which was very slippery
and muddy. I fell two or three times, doing considerable damage to my
already dirty dress; but I got to the water’s edge at last, and made a
valiant effort to cross the river.
Fortunately for us, it was March, and not April or May; for had these
events taken place later in the year, I do not know how we should have
crossed that river. But as it was the end of the cold weather, and the
rains had not commenced, the stream was low and easily waded. I did not
know how deep it was, for we had never crossed it riding, as we generally
did Manipuri rivers. We had often thought of doing so, but the banks were
so steep and slippery that my husband said it would do the horses no good
to clamber down them, and then we might find the river too deep to ford.
So with this delightful uncertainty about things, I made my first plunge,
and stepped into the water, which was dreadfully cold. I had got into
the middle of the stream, when I was overtaken by the doctor, who seemed
rather astonished at finding me there alone. However, I explained to him
that I had been too frightened to remain at the house when I saw so many
people running away, and had managed fairly well up to that time, but I
did not like the river.
He was certainly a good Samaritan on this occasion, for he carried me
the rest of the way through the water, and was just about to land me
high and dry on the bank, when his foot slipped in the mud, and down we
went. We soon picked ourselves up, however, and scrambled out, and then I
found that the heel had come off my shoe in the water. I was covered with
mud and shivering with cold, for my skirts were dripping with water and
very heavy. But there was no time to be lost, and I climbed up the bank
and crossed the road, on the other side of which was a deep ditch, into
which I retreated and lay down, for firing was going on, and I did not
know from which side it came, whether from our men, who had all caught
me up by this time, or the Manipuris. Whenever I heard shots afterwards
I used to be alarmed, for I never could tell when our men were firing,
and always feared the worst, unless I was actually in the midst of the
Sepoys, and could see them shooting with my own eyes.
We waited in the ditch some time, until all the Sepoys had crossed
the river, and then we started off again to find the way to Cachar. We
went some way in the opposite direction at first, and had to come back
again; but at length we turned down on to the right road, and commenced
the march in real earnest. It was a moonlight night, which enabled us
to see quite plainly. Had it been dark, our difficulties would have
been increased tenfold. We could not march fast, for the wounded had to
be brought along with us, and the number of Kahars carrying them was
limited. What they must have endured no one can imagine, being jolted
along for so many hours together without any food or rest. I knew every
inch of the road we were travelling, as I had ridden down and up it so
often in my journeys to and from Cachar, and I was able to give the
others the benefit of my knowledge.
We marched along in silence for some miles. At a place called Burri
Bazaar we were fired on, but we were not followed from the palace, as
we had fully expected. Whether they did not know we had escaped, or
whether they thought discretion the better part of valour, and preferred
remaining behind the shelter of their stone walls, to following after
us with hostile intent, I cannot say. But it was fortunate for us that
they gave us the start, and let us get some distance away before they
attempted to pursue us.
CHAPTER XVII.
Burning of the Residency and of all our effects—Difficulties of
retreat—No food, wet clothes, burning sun—Pursued—Exhaustive
march—Kindness of a Naza boy—Fired on—Sleep after a march
of twenty miles—Have to march again—Captured—A Manipuri
with rice—Enemy lurks around us—Come upon a stockade—Are
attacked—Goorkhas in sight.
It was about two in the morning that we left the Residency, and we
marched steadily on until daybreak. We had not gone four miles away from
the station, when I turned to look back, and found the whole sky for
miles round lit with a red glow, whilst from among the trees surrounding
our house flames were leaping up. Those only who have feelings of
affection for the places where they live, and which they call home, can
picture what that burning house meant for me.
All we possessed was there—all our wedding presents, and everything that
goes towards making a place homelike and comfortable; and these were
being destroyed under my very eyes, while I, like Lot’s wife of old, had
to turn my face in an opposite direction, utterly powerless to avert the
terrible destruction which was overtaking all I valued.
I thought of my husband, who I believed to be a prisoner in the palace,
surrounded by enemies, witnessing the demolition of the house, and not
knowing where I was, or what had become of me. He would see the flames,
and hear those terrible guns booming out at every second, and he would
know that I was either flying for my life or dead, but no more. And yet
I thought he was better off than we were. All hoped that Mr. Quinton and
his party would be quite safe, even though they were prisoners, safer
than we were; and I myself, knowing the Jubraj so well, thought that
he would be clever enough to see his own advantage in keeping them as
hostages, even if he were not influenced by feelings of friendship for my
husband. And with this reflection I had to quiet my own misgivings. But
it was hard to march on in silence without giving way, and it was only by
resolving not to look back at all that I managed to restrain my feelings.
I was glad when the dawn came. Every misfortune seems so much harder to
bear at night, and there is something in the daylight which gives us
strength. If we are ill, we always seem worse during the night; if in
sorrow, it is harder to bear in the dark when we are awake and the world
is sleeping. And so with myself at this time. The daylight seemed to
lessen the horror of the whole situation, and when the pink flush of the
dawn came, it mingled with the red glow caused by our burning home, until
all was merged into the full light of the rising sun. Then we halted,
and had a consultation as to what route we were to pursue. If we went
straight on for another six or seven miles, we knew we should have to
pass a large Thana strongly garrisoned. On the other hand, if we forsook
the main road and took to the hills, we stood the chance of losing our
way altogether.
Our great hope was to meet with Captain Cowley and his detachment of
two hundred men, who, we knew, were marching up from Cachar. They had
commenced their journey to Manipur some days before the rebellion had
taken place, and did not know anything of the sort was likely to occur.
We knew they were due at a place called Leimatak, some thirty miles from
the capital, on the 25th, so that if they had kept to their dates, they
could not be more than twenty miles away from us at that moment.
It was the early morning of the 25th when we found ourselves debating
over the road, twelve miles away from Manipur. It was decided at length
to cut across the fields, and make our way over the hills, hoping to
strike the Cachar road again at a higher point, and avoid the Bishenpur
Thana.
So we started off again. I was then very exhausted. We had had no food,
and the water we met with was very dirty. My feet were cut and sore from
the rough walking I had already had, and my clothes still damp and heavy.
By this time the sun was fairly high in the heavens, and beat down upon
my uncovered head, threatening me with a bad headache at the least, and
possibly sunstroke. It was quite evident that some sort of head-gear must
be provided, so after trying a turban, which I found insufferably hot
and heavy, one of the officers gave me his helmet, and wore the pugaree
himself. Our way lay for some distance across Dhan-fields.[18] Owing to
the heavy dew which had fallen during the night, these were very wet and
soppy, and we were glad when we reached the first hill and began the
ascent.
We had been unmolested for some hours now, but the boom of the guns and
the crack of the bullets hitting the walls of the house had left such
an impression on me that I fancied firing was still going on, and could
scarcely believe the others when they told me nothing of the kind was
taking place, for the noise in my ears was dreadful.
The first hill was very steep, but only a foretaste of what was to come
later on. It was covered with short straggling green grass, interspersed
with the rough stubble of last year, which had originally been several
feet high, but had been burned, according to the custom in those parts.
Here and there a long tough end that had escaped the fire hit one in the
face, covering one with smuts, and leaving a black mark where it had
touched one, so that after a very short time we all looked more or less
like sweeps.
The hill we were climbing had a small plateau about three-quarters of
the way up, and we steered for this, intending to have a really long
halt, and hoping to find water. It was a shady little spot, and when we
did reach it, we were all glad to lie down and rest after our terrible
exertions. We had a wide view of the plain and the road by which we had
travelled, so knew we should be able to note at once if the enemy were
pursuing us, and could afford to give ourselves a little breathing space.
Water had been found, as we expected, quite near, and as it was much
cleaner than what we had discovered in the fields below, everyone drank a
good deal, and the Sepoys filled up their bottles with it.
I do not know how long we remained here, as I went to sleep almost at
once on our arrival; but when I woke up at last, the others were moving
on up the hill, and I had to go too with them. Some distance behind we
noted a crowd of natives following us. It was difficult to distinguish
whether they were Manipuris or Nagas, but as they were armed with spears
and Daôs,[19] we concluded they must be the latter. Manipuris would have
had rifles.
They never came very close to us, for fear of being shot themselves;
but we could see them the whole time dancing behind us, shouting and
waving spears about. Once or twice they were fully within range, and we
could have shot some of them; but it was hardly worth while, and our
ammunition was none too plentiful. A terrible fate would have overtaken
any straggler who might have fallen behind without the means to defend
himself. His head would have been captured as a glorious trophy, carved
off while he was alive, for these tribes never trouble about killing
their victim first before taking his scalp unless he offers great
resistance.
We had reached by this time an elevation of about 4,000 feet above
sea-level, and knew that more than 2,000 feet at least still awaited us
to be climbed before the top of the ridge could be reached. The Leimatak
hill, towards which point we were travelling, was 6,700 feet high, and
was the topmost peak of the first range of hills lying between us and
Cachar.
We clambered on steadily, but very slowly. I was so tired that I could
hardly put one foot in front of the other, and felt much more inclined to
lie down in the jungle and go to sleep, than to march on. We were very
hungry, but I think I suffered less in that respect than the men did;
for though I should have eaten probably as heartily as the rest had we
possessed food, as there was none to be got, I never thought much about
it. Sleep seemed much more desirable.
It was two o’clock on the morning of the 25th that we left the Residency,
and it was now between three and four in the afternoon. Every fresh hill
seemed worse than its predecessor, and at last we began ascending one
which appeared almost impossible to climb. Its sides were very steep and
rocky, and there was only the merest apology for a path to direct us in
any way. It was a case of using hands and knees to perform the ascent,
and it seemed as though we should never reach the summit. When, after
wearily toiling on for some hours, we did arrive at the top, I felt that
I could not move another step.
We did halt for a short time here, and while we waited an incident
occurred which touched me very much. A young Naga, who had been a
Sais[20] in our service for several months at one time, found his way to
our camp at the risk of losing his life had he been discovered by the
enemy, and presented me with three eggs, expressing at the same time his
sorrow at not being able to do more for me. He stayed till sunset with
us, and then crept back under cover of the darkness to his village. I was
much touched at this simple act of kindness, and I have often remembered
it since, and wished it were in my power to do something for the brave
lad. But unfortunately I have forgotten his name, and that of the
village to which he belonged.
Three eggs are not many among eight hungry people, not to speak of the
Sepoys; but no one would share them with me, in spite of my begging them
to do so. I could not manage a raw egg, though I made several valiant
efforts to swallow one. Eventually they all came to a bad end, for the
two remaining ones were put into somebody’s pocket for safety, and were
smashed later on, so no one benefited much by the little Naga boy’s
well-meant offering.
While we were halting on the top of this hill, one of the officers took
a few men with him and went on to take stock of the surrounding country,
as our exact whereabouts seemed uncertain. He came to a Manipuri Thana
before he had proceeded far, and had a parley with the native officer in
command there, who called to him, telling him he had something to say. So
the party went up to within speaking distance, and the Manipuri called
out that he had orders to ‘pass the Memsahib and Sepoys,’ but that all
the officers must return to Manipur.
However, as soon as he was told that our party intended proceeding
undivided, he ordered his men to fire on us, which they immediately did,
and we had to begin marching again down the hill and up the other side of
the ravine. The firing continued on both sides the whole time, and it was
only when we eventually reached the summit of the opposite hill to that
upon which we had halted, and disappeared over the crest, that it ceased.
The sun had set, and night was beginning to close in and put an end to
the longest day I have ever known. It seemed months almost since our
departure from the Residency, and yet it was but twenty-four hours.
How I envied my husband and the others, who, as I then thought, were at
any rate in comparative safety, able to eat and sleep, even though they
were prisoners! Not that anxiety on my husband’s account did not trouble
me. I longed to know how he was being treated, and whether they would
tell him of my escape, and spare him the torture of not knowing my fate,
for I knew how he would fret over it if he did not know.
It seemed so terrible to be obliged to march away leaving them all
behind, and at times I longed to hurry back and see for myself what was
happening, while, again, I would have given anything to have reached
Cachar, and been able to send up help to those in captivity. We thought
that Mr. Melville had been made prisoner and brought back to Manipur,
as a rumour to that effect had reached us on the 24th, and in that case
we supposed he would be with the Chief and his party, a prisoner in the
palace.
Perhaps the utter weariness of body and mind which threatened to overcome
me at this time prevented my brooding too much on the possible fate of
those we had been forced to leave in the hands of their enemies, and it
may have been well that it was so.
All that terrible night we tramped on, I with bare feet, as my thin shoes
had given out long since. At length, about one o’clock in the morning, we
halted in a small grove of trees, lying in a hollow between two hills. We
had marched more than twenty miles, and rest was absolutely essential.
Here we lay down and slept. The officers gave me their great-coats and
bore the intense cold themselves, and I slept as I have seldom slept in a
comfortable bed at home, never waking once until someone aroused me about
half-past three in the morning, and told me the weary tale again—we were
to move on.
The first glimmer of dawn was appearing as we commenced marching
again—hungry, tired, and dispirited. No one knew the way, and we only had
rough paths here and there to guide us through the jungle; but the actual
walking was not so difficult, as we were travelling along the top of a
ridge of hills, and had no very steep ascent or descent.
Every now and then we were able to see the Leimatak peak, still some
distance off, which I had recognised and pointed out to the others, and I
knew that the road to Cachar passed right through a small grove of trees
on its summit, so we made it our landmark.
The chances of meeting Captain Cowley’s party seemed growing less every
hour. Had he been obliged to turn back? we wondered. Would he have gone
on towards Manipur, and have passed the place where we hoped to strike
the road? We knew nothing.
We were all utterly weary, and dispirited from want of food and rest. It
was now the morning of the 26th, and we had none of us tasted food since
the 24th. I was so tired that I wished I were dead more than once, and
everything seemed quite hopeless, when we came upon the road suddenly.
I think from this moment fate favoured us. We had entertained so little
hope of finding the road at all, that it seemed a piece of good fortune
when we came upon it suddenly, even though we had all our work still
before us and were without food.
The next thing that happened cheered our drooping spirits not a little.
We came round a corner and found three Manipuri Sepoys sitting by the
roadside, with their arms and accoutrements by them, cooking their
morning meal. They were taken by surprise at our sudden advent, and two
of them fled, leaving the third a prisoner in our hands. He was not so
active as the rest, and the Ghoorkas were too quick for him. They tied
him up with straps and anything they could find, and the poor creature
evidently thought that his last hour had come. He fell on his knees when
he saw me, calling me ‘Ranee, Ranee,’ and imploring of me to save him.
So I spoke to him as well as I could in Manipuri, telling him not to be
frightened; that we did not intend to hurt him.
Meanwhile, the rice they had cooked came in most acceptably, and perhaps,
had a disinterested onlooker been present, he might have been very much
amused at the eager way we all rushed at it to devour it. How good it
seemed, even though there were scarcely two mouthfuls for each one.
What there was was received most gratefully, and I felt very selfish
at discovering that, in their thoughtfulness for me, the officers had
managed to save a small basketful, which no one would touch, and which
they insisted on keeping for me. After the rice was disposed of, we
questioned the Manipuri we had captured to find out whether he knew
anything of Captain Cowley’s movements. He told us that he knew the Sahib
had arrived at Leimatak on the 25th, and that he had not yet passed along
the road towards Manipur. So we were cheered at the tidings, for we knew
now that, with any luck, we must meet with the detachment before very
long, and could not be more than eight miles away from Captain Cowley at
that moment.
The Manipuri went on to say that there were a number of the enemy lying
in wait for us about half a mile further on, and he advised us to take
to the jungle again, offering to show us a path that would lead us into
Captain Cowley’s camp. The idea of more fighting struck terror into
my heart, and had I been in command I should have been foolish enough
to take the man’s advice; but fortunately the others decided without
hesitation to go on, and said they did not believe the prisoner was
speaking the truth.
We had scarcely gone half a mile when we came suddenly upon a stockade,
and as soon as we appeared round the turn in the road which disclosed
it to our view, we were fired on from the hillside above us. I threw
myself down for protection against the sloping side of the road, but was
not allowed to remain there, as the stockade was about to be rushed,
and I had to get over it too, as best I could. Fortunately it had been
constructed to prevent Captain Cowley’s party from getting past that
point in the road, and was in consequence easier for us to clamber over,
as we had come from the opposite direction; but I knew that it was
useless for me to attempt climbing over it, as my dress would be certain
to catch on the sharp ends of the bamboos with which the stockade was
constructed, and there I should be suspended, an excellent mark for any
stray bullet. So I made a rush to the other side of the road, where I
lost my footing and fell, rolling down the Khud. But luckily it was
not as steep as it might have been, and I managed to scramble up and
get round the stockade, helped very considerably by my former friend
the Bunnia, before mentioned, who stretched out his leg from a secure
position, and I clambered up by it and lay down completely exhausted and
panting from my exertions down the hillside.
Meanwhile firing was going on overhead, which was returned by our men,
who killed one or two of the enemy. But the latter were so well screened
by the trees around them that it was difficult to get a shot at them at
all. I do not know how matters might have ended, but suddenly someone
called out that there were more men coming up the hill. No one knew who
they were, for they were a long way off, and could only be seen every now
and then as they appeared in and out of the trees. Sepoys they were we
knew, but were they friends or enemies?
I felt too exhausted to get up and look at them, as all the others
were doing, until there was an exclamation from someone that the new
arrivals were Ghoorkas. I had felt certain that they would turn out to
be Manipuris, who would put an end to us in a very short time. But when
opinion became divided as to their identity, the longing for life which
we all possess so strongly surged up into my brain, driving me nearly
crazy with excitement, and hope, that takes so much killing, rose again
within me.
Still we were doubtful. We could see as they came nearer that they wore
Kharkee, but the uniform worn by the Jubraj’s men was almost identical
with that of the Ghoorkas. We sounded our bugle, and it was answered by
the advancing party; but then we remembered the Manipuri bugle call was
the same as that of the 43rd Ghoorka Rifles, to which regiment Captain
Cowley belonged. We got out our only pocket-handkerchief, tied it to a
stick, and waved it about, but we could not see whether that signal was
returned or not. The time which had elapsed since they were first sighted
seemed hours; it was in reality only a few minutes.
Gradually they advanced nearer, running up the hill as fast as they
could, and then the majority cried out that they were the Ghoorkas from
Cachar. I shut my eyes, for I could not bear the strain of watching them
while their identity was uncertain. But at last a Sahib was descried
amongst them, and all doubt was over; they were the Ghoorkas, and we were
saved. I remember someone asking me if I would make one last effort and
run down the hill to meet them, as the firing was still going on, and
a stray bullet might even then find its billet; and I remember getting
up, with a mist in my eyes and a surging in my head, and running as I
have never run before or since down the hill, helped along by two of the
officers.
I remember putting my foot on a stone which rolled away from under it,
and gave my ankle a wrench which sprained it, and turned me sick and
giddy with pain; and I remember meeting Captain Cowley, and seeing his
men rushing past me up the hill, and then I remember nothing more for
some time. I did not faint, but I believe I sat down on the side of the
road and sobbed, for the strain had been more than I could bear after all
the horrors of the previous two days, and tears were a relief.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Saved—Captain Cowley pursues the enemy, and we fall on our
feet—Have to wear Sepoys’ boots—Halt at Leimatak—Transitions
of climate—Manipuri attack—Tables turned on them—Shortness of
food—The Nagas—Cross the Jhiri and regain the British frontier.
We were saved! That was the one thought in my mind when I was able to
recover my senses sufficiently to be able to think at all. Saved from the
terrors of starvation, and from the hands of our enemies; and in my heart
I thanked God for having given me the strength which had enabled me to
bear all the misery and weariness of the last few days. We human beings
are so given to forgetfulness, and fail so often to remember that we owe
thanks to Providence for preserving us when man’s help is of no avail.
We are ready enough to thank our fellow-men for what they do for us, but
we forget the rest. This time I can honestly say that I thanked God from
the bottom of my heart.
As I sat there by the side of the road, bereft of everything I possessed
in the world save only the clothes I wore, I did not think of what I had
lost, but only of the life that was still mine. This world is very good
and pleasant to live in. Home and friends are very dear to one at all
times. But all these are never so precious as when we see them slipping
from our grasp, and feel that even our breath, and the lifeblood coursing
through our veins, are to be taken from us; then alone do we fully rouse
ourselves to action, while we struggle and fight for the life that is so
dear.
It was some time before I recovered my senses sufficiently to be able to
join with the rest in giving the rescuing party a detailed account of
our miraculous escape. Some of Captain Cowley’s men were still pursuing
the now-retreating foe, and we could hear shots being fired from the
brow of the hill above us. We remained where we were for some time, and
our rescuers produced biscuits and potted meat and soda-water. They had
whisky with them too, so we really felt we had fallen on our feet. I was
too exhausted to eat much, and did not feel at all hungry; but I was glad
enough to drink a peg,[21] and felt very much better for it. My ankle was
very painful, so the doctor, who was among the newcomers, bound it up for
me, and I went to sleep by the roadside for a short time.
I have said we were saved, but that does not mean that we were entirely
out of danger of being fired upon by the Manipuris. They had not spared
Captain Cowley’s party, though they had allowed him to march up to within
twenty miles of us without making themselves unpleasant. But the night
before he met us he had marched as usual into a new camping-ground,
wholly ignorant of what had occurred in Manipur, and to his great
surprise had been fired on. Shortly afterwards fugitives from our party
arrived, and told him that we were wandering about in the jungle with
every chance of coming to grief before very long, unless rescued. This
news was startling, to say the least of it, and caused him to hurry on
to our help. When, some miles away, he heard shots being fired from the
top of the hill, he concluded that we were not far off, and before long
caught sight of the stockade and arrived in the nick of time with men,
food, and ammunition to our aid.
The rest of our march was a different thing to what the commencement had
been, though discomforts were still many and great. Food was none too
plentiful for the Sepoys, though we did not fare badly, and after two
days of starvation one is not particular. The 43rd had got a supply of
beer, whisky, and cocoa, which were all most acceptable commodities, and
I was able to get other luxuries from one of the party, viz., a brush,
a sponge, a grand pair of woollen stockings, and some Sepoys’ boots,
which each measured about a foot and a half in length and were broad in
proportion. However, beggars can’t be choosers, and as my ankle was very
much swollen the commodious boots did not come amiss.
After we had rested some hours we pushed on down the hill to Leimatak,
which place was reached before sunset. I was carried in a dooly, as my
ankle was too painful to allow of my walking.
When we arrived at the camp we found a string of elephants and mules,
which had been travelling up with the detachment, and which had been left
behind by Captain Cowley when he discovered the state of affairs we were
in, and had to hurry on to our help. It seemed difficult to realize that
we were still in a hostile country, surrounded by enemies, for the camp
looked just the same as it had done in more peaceful regions.
I had travelled down from Shillong, in the winter of 1890, with the 43rd
Ghoorka Rifles, and was consequently quite accustomed to the bustle and
movement accompanying a regiment on the march.
We halted at Leimatak for four or five hours, and had a very respectable
dinner, to which we did full justice. Afterwards I lay down and went to
sleep again, until it was time to move on.
From this time our march was very monotonous. We got up at three every
morning and marched until sunset. We had a meal of army rations and cocoa
in the morning, and another meal of army rations and beer in the evening,
after which we all went to sleep as we were, and never woke until the
bugle sounded the reveille.
We were always dead-tired. The hills were very steep, and as we got
nearer Cachar the heat was intense during the day, and the cold piercing
at night. We could only move very slowly, and with caution, for we never
knew when we might be attacked. Pickets were posted all around us on the
hills at night, for the purpose of keeping a look-out against the enemy.
We were fired at several times during the march, but the Manipuris did
not like the look of a large party, and kept a respectful distance,
sometimes firing at us from such a long way off that we did not take the
trouble to reply to it. And yet I was more nervous and unstrung at this
time than I had been when the danger was really imminent, and bullets
coming fast. A stray shot used to make my heart beat with terror, and at
last I got so nervous that whenever a shot was fired my companions used
to say it was only a bamboo burning in the jungle behind us.
We set fire to nearly all the Thanas on the road, which we found for the
most part deserted and empty. At one place called Khowpum, the Manipuris
had only left the Thana a few minutes before our arrival. They were lying
in wait for us though, on the top of a small ridge, hoping to catch us
as we came round the turn of the road. But they were caught themselves,
as the Ghoorkas made a small detour and appeared on the top of the ridge
instead of below it, and opened fire upon them, causing them to retreat
hastily, after a very slight show of resistance.
We then marched into the Thana, and found a quantity of rice in baskets,
which had evidently just arrived from the Maharajah’s Godowns[22] for
the monthly rations. We could not take the whole amount with us, but the
Sepoys were allowed to carry as much as they could, and it was a lucky
find. It was often very difficult to procure food for the men, and they
had more than once to go without dinner when they got in at night,
though as a rule they had half-rations. We had managed to get a supply of
rice from one of the Naga villages situated near the road.
The Nagas were for the most part friendly disposed towards us, but here
and there they gathered together near their villages, which they had
deserted for the meanwhile, and had a stray shot at us as we passed
along. We never burned these villages, thinking they might be useful to
the troops when they should return.
I walked most of the way, except the first march after meeting Captain
Cowley. He had a pony which he lent me, but the hills were very steep
at the best of times for riding, and on this occasion I had to balance
myself as best I could on a man’s saddle, with the off stirrup crossed
over the pony’s neck to make some sort of pommel. Riding thus downhill
was an impossibility, and I never made the attempt.
My ankle pained me very much at times, but for the most part it seemed to
have no feeling in it at all, and was swollen into an unsightly mass.
We came across one or two poor old Manipuri women on the road as we
neared the frontier. They had been peaceably travelling up to their homes
when the trouble came, and the men with them forsook them to hide in the
jungles around until we should have passed by. Poor old ladies! As soon
as they saw me they rushed at me and clung to my skirts, refusing to let
me out of their sight for a minute. We took them with us to Cachar, and
let them remain there until peace should be restored once more.
Day by day brought the same routine: the weary march in the hot sun, and
the worn-out slumber at night; but at last the day dawned which was to
see us across the frontier in British territory once more, saved in every
sense of the word.
It was sunset on the last day of March as we crossed the river Jhiri. I
had come all those weary miles through dangers great and terrible, and
was alive to tell the tale. Illness had spared us all. We might have had
cholera amongst us, to add to the rest of our troubles; but we had been
free from that.
To me, a woman, solitary and alone amongst so many men, the march had
been doubly trying; but to hear them say that I had not been a burden
upon them was some reward for all I had endured.
It has been said lately by some that this retreat to Cachar was in a
great measure due to my presence in Manipur at the time, and that my
helplessness has been the means of dragging the good name of the army,
and the Ghoorka corps in particular, through the mire, by strongly
influencing the officers in their decision to effect ‘the stampede to
Cachar.’
But I scarcely think that they would have allowed the presence of, and
danger to one woman to deter them from whatever they considered their
duty; and had they decided to remain at the Residency that night, I
should never have questioned their right to do so, even as I raised no
argument for or against the retreat to Cachar.
I think that the honour of England is as dear to us women as it is to
the men; and though it is not our vocation in life to be soldiers, and
to fight for our country, yet, when occasion offers, I have little doubt
that the women of England have that in them which would enable them to
come out of any dilemma as nobly and honourably as the men, and with just
as much disregard for their own lives as the bravest soldier concerned.
But such an insinuation as I have quoted is not, I am happy to think, the
unspoken opinion of the many to whom the story of Manipur is familiar. It
is but the uncharitable verdict of a few who are perhaps jealous of fair
fame honestly won, and who think to take a little sweetness from the
praise which England has awarded to a woman.
That such praise has been bestowed is more than sufficient reward for
what, after all, many another Englishwoman would have done under similar
circumstances.
CHAPTER XIX.
Our ignorance as to Mr. Quinton’s proceedings—News at last
reach India and England—Take off my clothes for the first
time for ten days—March to Lahkipur—The ladies of Cachar send
clothes to me—Write home—Great kindness shown to me—My fears
for my husband—The telegram arrives with fatal news—Major
Grant’s narrative.
During the eventful days which had elapsed between March 23 and April
1, nothing definite had been known by the authorities in India as to
Mr. Quinton’s proceedings and whereabouts. All that was certain was
that he had arrived at Manipur, and had been unable to carry out his
original plans for leaving again the day following his arrival, owing
to the refusal of the Jubraj to obey the orders of Government; but the
tidings of the fight which had followed had never been despatched to
head-quarters, owing to the telegraph-wire having been cut immediately
after the contest began.
That communication, in this manner, was interrupted was not as serious
an omen as might have been supposed. Cutting the telegraph-wire was
a favourite amusement of the Manipuris; and even during the small
revolution in September, 1890, they had demolished the line in two or
three directions.
But when several days went by, and still the wire remained broken, and no
information of any kind as to what was going on in Manipur reached the
authorities, people became alarmed.
Rumours came down through the natives that there was trouble up there;
and a few of the traders found their way into Kohima with the news that
all had been killed.
Then excitement rose high, and every day fresh rumours reached the
frontier, some of which said that I and one or two others had escaped,
but the rest were either killed or prisoners.
The first definite information came from our party. An officer was sent
on by double marches on the 31st with the despatches, civil and military;
and before another day had passed the whole of India knew the names of
those who had escaped, as well as of those who were prisoners, and in a
few hours the news had reached England.
To some, that news must have been snatched up with great relief; but
there were many who read it with terrible misgivings in their hearts for
the fate of those dear to them who were in captivity.
A person who does not know the sensation of never taking his or her
clothes off for ten days can scarcely realize what my feelings were when,
on arriving at the Jhiri rest-house, I found a bath and a furnished
room. Nothing could ever equal the pleasure which I derived from that,
my first tub for ten days. I felt as though I should like to remain in
it for hours; and even though I had to array myself again afterwards
in my travel-stained and ragged garments until I reached Lahkipur, the
sensation of feeling clean once more was truly delightful.
I was covered with leech-bites, and found one or two of those creatures
on me when I took off my clothes. They had been there three or four days,
for we had fallen in with a swarm of them at one of the places where we
had camped for the night during the march. It was near a river and very
damp, and the leeches came out in crowds and attacked everybody. But the
men were able to get rid of them better than I was, and I had to endure
their attentions as best I might until we got to the Jhiri, and I could
indulge in the luxury of taking off my clothes.
I slept on a bed that night, and was very loath to get up when the bugle
awoke us all at the first streak of dawn.
We marched ten miles into a place called Lahkipur, where we found a
number of troops already mustering to return to Manipur.
I found clothes and many other necessaries at Lahkipur, which had been
sent out for me by the ladies of Cachar; and I blessed them for their
thoughtfulness.
The luxury of getting into clean garments was enchanting; and though the
clothes did not fit me with that grace and elegance that we womenkind
as a rule aspire to, still, they seemed to me more beautiful than any
garments I had ever possessed. They were clean; that was the greatest
charm in my eyes.
Then came breakfast, such as we had not indulged in for a very long time,
and everything seemed delicious.
Immediately after breakfast we all sat down to write home. It was hard
work for me after all I had gone through, and with the keen anxiety I
was still feeling about those left behind, to put the account of the
terrible disaster into words; but I felt that if I did not write then, I
should not have the strength to do so later on, and I managed to send a
full account home by the next mail.
We halted at Lahkipur all that day, and we started to march our last
fourteen miles into Cachar on the night of April 2, or, rather, the early
morning of the 3rd. A number of the planters in the neighbourhood came
in to Lahkipur to see us before we left, and hear from our own lips the
narrative of our escape, and the news of it all got into Cachar long
before we ourselves arrived.
Everyone seemed anxious to show us all kindness; but the efforts that
were made to secure comforts for me in particular were innumerable as
they were generous. When I eventually did arrive at Cachar, I found
myself made quite a heroine of. There was not one who did not seem
honestly and heartily glad to see me there again safe, and I shall never
forget the kindness I received as long as I live.
But amongst them all, there were some old friends who received me into
their house, putting themselves out in every possible way to add to my
comfort, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude that I never can repay. It
would not perhaps be quite agreeable to them if I wrote their names
here; but when this record of my terrible adventure reaches them in
their far-off Indian home, they will know that I have not missed the
opportunity, which is given me in writing about it, of paying them a
tribute of gratitude and affection for all their goodness to me in a time
of great trouble.
It was delightful to have a woman to talk to again, although my
companions on the march had one and all shown me how unselfish and
kindhearted Englishmen can be when they are put to the test. They had
never let me feel that I was a burden on them, and though often I felt
very weak and cowardly, they quieted my misgivings, and praised me for
anything I did, so that it gave me courage to go on and help to endure
the horrors of that terrible retreat.
For a week I remained with my friends at Cachar, tormented by anxiety
concerning my husband. The general opinion seemed to be that he and
his companions would be perfectly safe, but I was full of terrible
misgivings. I remembered stories of the Mutiny in bygone days, and had
read how the prisoners then had often been murdered just at the moment
when rescue was at hand.
I feared that when the troops should go back, the Jubraj would refuse to
make terms with them, and would threaten to kill the prisoners if our
troops came into the place, and I wondered what they would do in that
case.
I sent two letters up by Manipuris to my husband, care of the regent,
telling him of my escape. I was only allowed to write on condition that
I said nothing of the preparations which were being made to rescue Mr.
Quinton and his party. But it was a relief to me to be able to write a
few lines, for my one idea was to spare my husband the awful anxiety
which he would endure until he should hear of my safety.
I had been a week in Cachar when the news came which put an end alike to
all hope and all fear. Troops had been hurrying back to Manipur, and the
station was alive with Sepoys of all regiments. All the officers and men
who had come down with me from Manipur had gone some way on the road back
there. The wounded had been placed in the Cachar hospital, where I went
to see them two or three times. Poor little fellows! they all seemed so
glad to see me.
At last one evening, exactly a week after our arrival, a telegram
arrived from Shillong to say that authentic news had come from the regent
at Manipur to the effect that all the prisoners had been murdered. I saw
the telegram arrive. I was in the deputy commissioner’s bungalow when
it was handed to him, and made the remark that I disliked bright yellow
telegrams, as they always meant bad news.
In India a very urgent message is always enclosed in a brilliant yellow
envelope. But the officer said that he did not think anything of them,
as he was receiving so many of them at all hours of the day, and for the
time I thought no more about it.
Shortly afterwards I noticed that he had left the table. Then I went out
too, and met my friend outside, who seemed rather upset about something,
and told me she was going home at once. So we went together.
But as soon as we had got into the house she broke to me, as gently and
mercifully as she could, the news that my husband had been killed. It
was a hard task for her, and the tears stood in her eyes almost before
she had summoned up the courage to tell me the worst. And when she had
told me I could not understand. The blow was too heavy, and I felt
stunned and wholly unable to realize what it all meant. I could not
believe, either, that the news was true, for it seemed to me impossible
that any authentic intelligence could have been received.
But after a night of misery, made almost heavier to bear by reason of
the glimmer of hope which still remained that the news might be false,
the morning brought particulars confirming the first message, and giving
details which put an end to any uncertainty. The regent had sent a letter
saying that the prisoners had been killed. I believe he stated they had
fallen in the fight at first, but afterwards contradicted himself, and
said they had been murdered by his brother, the Jubraj, without his
knowledge or consent.
I cannot dwell on this part of the story. It is all too recent and
painful as yet, and too vivid in my recollection. There are no words
that can describe a tragedy such as this. Besides, the fate of those
captives is no unknown story. All know that through treachery they found
themselves suddenly surrounded by their enemies, with all hope of help
gone, and without the means to defend themselves.
And the ending—how they were led out one by one in the moonlight to
suffer execution, after having been obliged to endure the indignity of
being fettered! How, of that small band, one had already fallen dead,
speared by a man in the crowd; and one was so badly wounded that he had
fallen, too, by the side of his dead friend, and had to be supported by
his enemies when he went out, as the others had to go, to meet his fate.
And yet in all that terrible story there is one ray of comfort for me in
the fact that my husband was spared the fate of the rest. I am glad to
think that he did not suffer. He never heard those terrible guns booming
out, proclaiming the work of destruction which was being wrought on the
home he had loved. He did not see the cruel flames which reduced our
pretty house to a heap of smoking ruins, and he did not know that I was
flying for my life, enduring privations of every kind, lonely, wretched,
and weary at the outset.
He was spared all this, and I am thankful that it was so. For before the
guns commenced shelling us again on that dreadful night, the tragedy
described had already taken place within the palace enclosure.
Well for me was it that I was ignorant of my husband’s fate. Had I known,
when we left the Residency that night, that he and I were never to meet
again on God’s earth, I could never have faced that march. It had been
hard enough as it was to go and leave him behind me; but thinking that he
was safe helped me in the endeavour to preserve my own life for his sake.
It is time to end this narrative of my own experiences, for all was
changed for me from the day that brought the terrible news; but the
account of the incidents of March, 1891, would scarcely be complete
without my touching on some other events which were occurring in a
different quarter in connection with the Manipur rebellion.
I allude to the noble part taken by Mr. Grant (whom I have referred
to earlier in this volume) in the affair as soon as tidings of the
disturbance reached him. To describe his share in my own words would
scarcely be a satisfactory proceeding, so I have thought it better to add
his letter, giving all the details of what occurred, to my own narrative.
The news first reached him on the morning of March 27, and in his letters
home he describes the subsequent events as follows:
MAJOR GRANT’S NARRATIVE.
‘On March 27, morning, thirty-five men of 43rd Ghoorka Light Infantry
came into Tummu, reporting there had been a great fight at Manipur on
25th. Chief Commissioner Grimwood, the Resident, same who came to see
me with wife, Colonel Skene, and many others, killed, and five hundred
Ghoorkas killed, prisoners, or fled to Assam; the thirty-five men of
43rd Light Infantry had been left at the station Langthabal, four miles
south of Manipur, and after the others broke they retreated to Tummu in
forty-eight hours, only halting four hours or so, fighting all the way
and losing several killed. I wired all over Burmah, and asked for leave
to go up and help Mrs. Grimwood and rest to escape, and got orders at
eleven p.m. on 27th.
‘At five a.m., 28th, I started with fifty of my men, one hundred and
sixty rounds each, thirty Ghoorkas, Martini rifles, sixty rounds, and
three elephants; marched till five p.m., then slept till one a.m., 29th,
marched till two p.m., slept till eleven p.m., marched and fought all the
way till we reached Palel at seven a.m., 30th, having driven one hundred
and fifty men out of a hill entrenchment and two hundred out of Palel, at
the foot of the hills, without loss. Elephants could only go one mile or
so an hour over these hills, 6,000 feet high, between this and Tummu, but
road very good. Prisoners taken at Palel said that all the Sahibs killed
or escaped; Mrs. Grimwood escaped to Assam. Poor Melville, who had stayed
a week before with me at Tummu (telegraph superintendent), killed on
march.
‘I marched at eleven p.m., 30th, and neared Thobal at seven a.m., meeting
slight resistance till within 300 yards of river, three feet to six feet
deep, and fifty yards broad; there seeing a burning bridge, I galloped up
on poor “Clinker” (the old steeplechasing Burman tal I had just bought on
selling my Australian mare “Lady Alice”), and was greeted by a hot fire
from mud-walled compounds on left of bridge and trenches on the right in
open all across the river. I saw the wooden bridge was burnt through,
and made record-time back to my men, emptying my revolver into the enemy
behind the walls.
‘My men were in fighting formation. Ten my men 2nd Burmah Battalion of
Punjaub Infantry (new name), and ten Ghoorkas in firing line at six paces
interval between each man, and twenty my men in support 100 yards rear
of flanks in single rank, and twenty my men and twenty Ghoorkas reserve,
baggage guard 300 yards in rear with elephants, and thirty followers
of the Ghoorkas (Khasias, from Shillong Hills). We opened volleys by
sections (ten men) and then advanced, one section firing a volley while
the other rushed forward thirty paces, threw themselves down on ground,
and fired a volley, on which the other section did likewise. Thus we
reached 100 yards from the enemy, where we lay for about five minutes,
firing at the only thing we could see, puffs of smoke from the enemy’s
loopholes, and covered with the dust of their bullets. I had seen one man
clean killed at my side, and had felt a sharp flick under arm, and began
to think we were in for about as much as we could manage; but the men
were behaving splendidly, firing carefully and well directed. I signalled
the supports to come up wide on each flank; they came with a splendid
rush and never stopped on joining the firing line, but went clean on
to the bank of the river, within sixty yards of the enemy, lying down
and firing at their heads, which could now be seen as they raised them
to fire; then the former firing line jumped up and we rushed into the
water. I was first in, but not first out, as I got in up to my neck and
had to be helped out and got across nearer to the bridge, the men fixing
bayonets in the water.
‘The enemy now gave way and ran away all along, but we bayoneted eight
in the trenches on the right, found six shot through the head behind the
compound wall. At the second line of walls they tried to rally, but our
men on the right soon changed their minds, and on they went and never
stopped till they got behind the hills on the top of the map; our advance
and their retreat was just as if you rolled one ruler after another up
the page on which the map is.
‘When I got to (A) I halted in sheer amazement; the enemy’s line was
over a mile long. I estimated them at eight hundred, the subadar at
one thousand two hundred; afterwards heard they were eight hundred men
besides officers. They were dressed mostly in white jackets with white
turbans and dhoties, armed with Tower-muskets, Enfield and Snider rifles,
and about two hundred in red jackets and white turbans, armed with
Martinis, a rifle that will shoot over twice as far as our Sniders. I
simply dared not pursue beyond (A), as my baggage was behind, and beyond
them I had seen two or three hundred soldiers half a mile away on my
right rear.
‘At eight a.m. I was in the three lines of compounds, each compound
containing a good house about thirty by twenty feet (one room), and
three or five sheds and a paddy-house. We carried over our baggage on
our heads, leaving a strong party at (A), and set to work to prepare our
position for defence. I had used eighty of our one hundred and sixty
rounds per man; only one man was killed. I found I was slightly grazed,
no damage, and three of my six days’ rations; and I could not hope to
reach Manipur, therefore I must sit tight till reinforced from Burmah, or
joined by any of the defeated Ghoorka Light Infantry troops from Cachar.
‘We filled the paddy-house with paddy, about a ton, and collected much
goor (sugar-cane juice) and a little rice and green dhal and peas from
the adjoining houses. Then I cleared my field of fire—_i.e._, by cutting
down the hedges near and burning the surrounding houses and grass; my
walls were from two feet to four feet high, and one to three feet thick,
and, I thought, enough. Put men on half ata and dhal; shot a mallard
(wild duck on river), and spent a quiet night with strong pickets.
‘On April 1, at six a.m., my patrols reported enemy advancing in full
force from their new position. I went to (A), where picket was, and took
a single shot with a Ghoorka’s Martini into a group of ten or twelve
at 700 yards. The group bolted behind the walls at (B), and the little
Ghoorkas screamed with delight at a white heap left on the road, which
got up and fell down again once or twice, none of the others venturing
out to help the poor wretch.
‘Then a group assembled on the hill, 1,000 or 1,100 yards off, and the
Ghoorka Jemadar fired, and one went rolling down the hill; I fired
again, but no visible effect. The enemy then retired under cover; but at
three p.m. they advanced in full force. I lined wall (A) with fifty men,
holding rest in reserve in the fort.
‘The enemy advanced to 600 yards, when we opened volleys, and after
firing at us wildly for half an hour, they again retired to 800 yards,
and suddenly from the hill a great “boom,” a scream through the air;
then, fifty feet over our heads, a large white cloud of smoke, a loud
report, and fragments of a 9-lb. or 10-lb. elongated common shell from a
rifle cannon fell between us and our fort; a second followed from another
gun, and burst on our right; then another struck the ground and burst on
impact to our front, firing a patch of grass; they went on with shrapnel.
‘I confess I was in a horrid funk, for although I knew that artillery
has little or no effect on extended troops behind a little cover, I
dreaded the moral effect on my recruits, who must have had an enormously
exaggerated idea of the powers of guns; but they behaved splendidly, and
soon I had the exact range of the guns, by the smoke and report trick,
900 or 970 yards; and after half an hour, during which their fire got
wilder and wilder, both guns disappeared, and only one turned up on the
further hill, 1,500 yards from (A), from which they made poor practice,
as the Ghoorkas’ bullets still reached them, and they only ran the gun up
to fire, and feared to lay it carefully. All this time the enemy kept up
their rifle fire, from 600 to 800 yards, but I only replied to it when
they tried to advance nearer.
‘By this time it grew dark, and when we could no longer see the enemy we
concentrated in the fort, as the enemy had been seen working round to our
left. I sent the men back one by one along the hedges, telling each man
when and where to go; none of them doubled.
‘It was quite dark when I got back, and posted them round our walls,
which seemed so strong in the morning, but were like paper against
well-laid field-guns; I felt very, very bitter.
‘I was proud of the result of my personal musketry-training of my
butchas (children), all eight months’ recruits, except ten or fifteen
old soldiers, who set a splendid example, and talked of what skunks the
Manipuris were, compared to the men they had fought in Afghanistan and
the North-West Frontier; but they all said they had never seen such odds
against them before. Our total day’s loss—a pony killed, and one man
slightly wounded.
‘All night the enemy kept up a long-range fire without result, which was
not replied to. I tied white rags round our foresights for night-firing.
I slept for about two hours in my east corner, and at three a.m. turned
out to strengthen the walls in four places against shell-fire, made
a covered way to the water, and dug places for cover for followers.
Luckily much of the compound was fresh ploughed, so we only had to fill
the huge rice-baskets with the clods, and the ration-sacks, pails, my
pillow-case, and a post-bag I had recovered, everything with earth, and
soon I had five parapets in front and flanks, each giving cover for eight
or ten men. The enemy had retired behind the hill.
‘At three p.m. a patrol reported a man flag-signalling. I went out
with white flag, and met a Ghoorka of 44th, a prisoner in Manipuris’
hands, who brought a letter signed by six or eight Babu prisoners,
clerks, writers, post and telegraph men, saying there were fifty Ghoorka
prisoners and fifty-eight civil prisoners, and imploring me to retire. If
I advanced they would kill the prisoners; if I retired the durbar would
release them, and send them to Cachar. I said those prisoners who wished
could go to Cachar, and I would retire to Tammu with those who wished to
come with me.
‘I also wrote to the Maharajah, and also on 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and 5th
messages passed from me to Maharajah and his two brothers, Jubraj and
Senaputti, the heir and the commander-in-chief.
‘Maharajah wrote saying he was not responsible for the outbreak; and
Senaputti told the messengers he had 3,000 men in front of me, and would
cut us all up.
‘I wrote refusing to move without the Ghoorka prisoners at least, and
said “I didn’t care for 5,000 Manipuri Babus.”[23]
‘At last Jubraj said the prisoners had been sent away to Assam, and sent
me 500 pounds ata and 50 pounds each dhal and ghee to retire with. I sent
back the rations, and refused to move without a member of the durbar as a
hostage, to remain at Tammu till prisoners arrived at Cachar and Kohima.
They offered me a subadar. I said he was no one. I had signed all my
letters as Col. A. Howlett, Com. 2nd B. Regt., to impress them with my
strength and importance, and put on the subadar’s badges of rank in
addition to my own.
‘The next morning (6th) they attacked again at dawn, and as I had only
seventy rounds per man for Sniders and thirty for Martinis, I closed into
the fort. At first, after forty minutes’ shelling, they made determined
efforts to cross the walls 100 to 200 yards in front of my front and
left; but nearly every man was hit as he mounted the wall, and then they
remained firing from behind the walls.
‘At eight a.m. a good lot had collected behind the wall 200 yards from my
left. I crept out with ten or twelve Ghoorkas, who held my rear and right
under the hedge, and drove them with loss by an attack on their right
flank, and we bolted back to fort without loss.
‘Then at eleven a.m. there was firing from behind the hedges to our
front with a weapon that rang out louder than their rifles. I crept out
with a havildar and six Ghoorkas close in the ditch under the hedge,
out to our front from our right, up to within ten yards of the nearest
of them. They opened a wild fire, and bolted as we attacked their left
flank; but then we found ourselves in a bit of a hole, for thirty or
forty were in a corner behind a wall, six feet high, over which they were
firing at us. I had my D. B. sixteen-bore shot-gun, and six buckshot and
six ball cartridges, and as they showed their heads over the wall they
got buckshot in their faces at twenty yards.
‘When my twelve rounds were fired, and the Ghoorkas also doing
considerable damage, we rushed the wall, and I dropped one through the
head with my revolver, and hit some more as they bolted.
‘When we cleared them out we returned to the fort along the ditch, having
had the hottest three minutes on record, and only got the Ghoorka
havildar shot through the hand and some of our clothes shot through; we
had killed at least ten.
‘Next day I visited the corner, and found blood, thirty Snider and
fifteen Martini cartridges, and one four-inch long Express cartridge,
·500, which accounted for the unaccountable sounds I had heard.
‘Next day I heard I had killed the “Bhudda” (old) Senaputti, or the
commander-in-chief of the old Maharaj, father of the present lot of
scoundrels, and also two generals; but that is not yet confirmed.
‘Well, as I said, we bolted back into the fort, and I had thirty minutes’
leisure to go all round my fort, and found I had only fifty rounds per
man, enough for one hour’s hard fighting, and only twenty-five for
Martinis; so I ordered all the men to lie down behind the walls, and one
man in six kept half an hour’s watch on their movements. The men had
orders not to fire a shot till the enemy were half-way across the open
adjoining compounds; but the enemy declined to cross the open, and the
men did not fire a shot all day. I picked off a few who showed their
heads from the east corner, where I spent the rest of the day, the men
smoking and chatting, and at last took no notice of the bullets cutting
the trees a foot or six inches over their heads.
‘Thus the day passed, the enemy retiring at dark, and we counted our
loss—two men and one follower wounded, one by shell; one pony killed, two
wounded; two elephants wounded, one severely; and my breakfast spoilt by
a shell, which did not frighten my boy, who brought me the head of the
shrapnel which did the mischief—I will send it home to be made into an
inkpot, with inscription—and half my house knocked down.
‘Next day, 7th, quiet, improved post and pounded dhan to make rice.
‘Saturday, 8th, ditto. Large bodies of Manipuris seen moving to my right
rear long way off.
‘At five, 7th, two Burmans came with letters from Maharajah to Viceroy,
and a letter from “civil” to poor killed chief commissioner. I opened and
found that large army comes up from Burmah “at once.” A small party three
or four days before would have been more use. Maharajah’s letter a tissue
of miserable lies and stupid excuses.
‘At noon, 8th, white flag appeared, and a man stuck a letter on road
and went back. Went and found it contained a letter from Presgrave,
with orders from Burmah for me to retire on first opportunity, and he
was not to reinforce me, but to help me to retire. I was sick, but the
orders were most peremptorily worded. So at 7.30 p.m., on a pitch-dark,
rainy night, we started back—a splendid night for a retreat, but such a
ghastly, awful job!
‘We had two wounded elephants with us, and made just a mile an hour,
only seeing our hands before our faces by the lightning-flashes. I had
to hold on to a Sepoy’s coat, as I could see absolutely nothing; but
they see better in the dark than we do. We were drenched to the skin, and
were halting, taking ten paces forward when the lightning flashed, and
then halting the column half an hour at times; but the feeble Manipuri,
of course, would not be out such a night, and we passed through three or
four villages full of troops without a man showing.
‘At two a.m., 9th, a man said sleepily, “The party has come”—that was
all—and the next moment Presgrave had my hand. He had heard that I was
captured, and all my men killed or taken at two different places; had
returned nearly to Tummu, but the two Burmans with Maharajah’s letter
told him where I was, and he marched thirty-six hours without kit or
rations, only halting for eight hours, and was coming on to Tummu. He
went back to meet some rations, and then, after passing the night in a
Naga village, returned to Palel and here, with a hundred and eighty men
and eleven boxes of ammunition—forty of them our mounted infantry.
‘At Palel we found three or four hundred Manipuri soldiers who did not
expect us; they saw us half a mile off, and bolted after firing a few
shots. I went on with the mounted infantry, and after trotting till
within 300 yards of the retreating army, we formed line on the open and
went in.
‘I rode for a palki and umbrella I saw, and shooting one or two on my way
got close up; but a hundred or so had made for the hills on our right
and made a short stand, and suddenly down went poor Clinker on his head,
hurling me off. Jumped up—I was covered with blood from a bullet-wound
in the poor beast’s foreleg, just below the shoulder. Two men came up.
I twisted my handkerchief round with a cleaning-rod above the wound,
stopping the blood from the severed main artery, and, refilling my
revolver, ran on.
‘By this time the men had jumped off and were fighting with the enemy
on the hill; the palki was down, and I fear the inmate of it escaped. We
killed forty of them without loss, excepting poor Clinker and another
pony. After pursuing three miles we stopped, and returned to the
infantry, which were rather out of it, though they doubled two miles.
Found poor Clinker’s large bone broken, and had to shoot him at once.
‘We collected the spoil and returned to camp, where we had a quiet night,
and were joined by the Hon. Major Charles Leslie and four hundred of his
2nd-4th[24] Ghoorkas, and two mountain guns; Cox of ours. Total now,
eight British officers; all very nice and jolly; but to our disgust we
have to halt here for rest of ours, rest of Ghoorkas, two more guns, and
General Graham.
‘Cox brought me telegrams of congratulations from Sir Frederick Roberts,
General Stewart, commanding Burmah, and Chief Commissioner, saying
everything kind and nice they could. I sent in my despatches next day,
and so the first act of the Manipur campaign closes.
‘My men have behaved splendidly, both in attack, siege, and retreat,
and I have recommended all for the Order of Merit. My luck all through
has been most marvellous; everything turned up all right, and there
was hardly a hitch anywhere. Poor Clinker! He was 300 yards from eight
hundred rifles for twenty minutes and never touched, and a shot killed
him at full gallop. Now “bus” (enough) about myself in the longest letter
I have ever written.’
‘Manipur Fort, _April 28_.
‘We arrived here yesterday, and found it empty. We gave them such an
awful slating on the 25th that they resisted no more either at my place,
Thobal, or here. On the 25th I went out from Palel with fifty my men,
Sikhs, fifty our Mounted Infantry under Cox, and fifty 2nd-4th Ghoorkas,
the whole under Drury, of 2nd-4th Ghoorkas. We had orders only to
reconnoitre enemy’s position, not to attack, as remainder were to arrive
that morning.
‘The road ran along the plain due north towards Manipur, with open plain
on left and hills right. Saw the enemy on the hills and in a strong mud
fort 1,000 yards from hills in the open. I worked along the hills and
drove the enemy out of them, as we found them unexpectedly, and had to
fight in spite of orders. Then Drury sent on to the general to say we
had them in trap, and would he come out with guns and more men and slate
them. Then he sent the Mounted Infantry to the left to the north-west of
the enemy, and we worked behind the hills to the north-east, thus cutting
them off from Manipur. We went behind a hill and waited.
‘At 11.30 we saw from the top of our hill the column from Palel, two
mountain guns, and one hundred 2nd-4th Ghoorkas. The guns went to a hill
1,000 yards to the east of the enemy’s fort, and we watched the fun. The
first shell went plump into the fort; soon they started shrapnel and made
lovely practice, the enemy replying with two small guns and rifles. Then
we got impatient and advanced, and worked round to their west flank. The
guns went on sending common shell and shrapnel into the fort till we
masked their fire. The Ghoorkas, also under Carnegy, advanced from south
from Palel. We did not fire a shot till within 100 yards, fearful of
hitting own men. Then our party charged, but were brought up by a deep
ditch under their walls; down and up we scrambled, and when a lot of
our men had collected within ten paces of their walls, firing at every
head that showed, the enemy put up a white flag, and I at once stopped
the fire. Then they sprang up and fired at us. I felt a tremendous blow
on the neck, and staggered and fell, luckily on the edge of the ditch,
rather under cover; but feeling the wound with my finger, and being able
to speak, and feeling no violent flow of blood, I discovered I wasn’t
dead just yet. So I reloaded my revolver and got up.
‘Meanwhile my Sikhs were swarming over the wall. I ran in, and found the
enemy bolting at last from the east, and running away towards Manipur. My
men were in first, well ahead of both parties of Ghoorkas.
‘After I had seen all the Manipuris near the fort polished off, I sent
for a dresser and lay down in one of the huts in the fort. Soon had my
clothes off, and found the bullet had gone through the root of my neck,
just above the shoulder, and carried some of the cloth of my collar and
shirt right through the wound, leaving it quite clean. I was soon bound
up, and men shampooed me and kept away cramp. It was only a very violent
shock, and I felt much better in the evening.
‘As soon as the enemy got clear of the fort the shrapnel from the hills
opened fire on them, and when they got beyond, then Cox cut in with his
mounted infantry, and only five or six escaped; but poor Cox got badly
shot by one of them through the shoulder, but is doing well.
‘Carnegy and Grant, of the 2nd-4th, found twenty or thirty of the enemy
in a deep hole in the corner of the fort, where they had escaped our men,
and in settling them Carnegy got shot through the thigh, and Drury got
his hand broke by the butt of a gun. Two of my men were wounded, and two
of the 2nd-4th killed, and five or six wounded, I think because they were
in much closer order than my men, who were at ten paces interval.
‘We gathered seventy-five bodies in the fort and fifty-six near it, and
the shrapnel and mounted infantry killed over one hundred. The Manipuris
here say we killed over four hundred. So we paid off part of our score
against their treachery. We spent the night there.
‘They were tremendously astonished and disgusted when they heard in Palel
we had had such a fight. The fact is we left them no bolt-hole, and
they thought, after their treacherous murder of the five Englishmen at
Manipur, that we would give them no quarter, and so every man fought till
he was killed.
‘Next morning we advanced to my fort at Thobal, and found it deserted;
and the royal family and army fled from Manipur as soon as they heard
of the action of the 25th. So yesterday, the 27th, we marched in here,
my Thobal party, by order of the general, being the first to enter the
palace on our side, the Cachar and the Kohima columns arriving from the
west and north just before them.
‘I, alas! in my dholi, did not get up till two hours after, as it poured
all the march, and the mud was awful; but I slept A1 last night, and
to-day am feeling fit and well.
‘General Collett, commanding the army, came to-day to see me, and said
all sorts of nice things to me, and his A.-G. asked me when I would be a
captain, and said I would not be one long, meaning I would get a brevet
majority. But all these people are very excited now, and talk of my
getting brevet rank, and V.C. and D.S.O.; but when all is settled, if I
get anything at all I will be content, and it will be about as much as I
deserve. I have asked leave if I might stick to my men, as they had stuck
so well to me at Thobal. I have had such luck, the men in this regiment
will do anything for me, and I hate the idea of changing regiments again,
so I may remain if a vacancy occurs.
‘I went out for a “walk” in my dholi this evening, and went round the
palace—a very poor place.’
CHAPTER XX.
Her Majesty gives me the Red Cross—I go to Windsor and see
her Majesty—The Princess of Wales expresses a wish to see
me—Conclusion.
Little remains now to be added to the record of my three years in
Manipur, and escape from the Mutiny. Mr. Grant is now a major and a V.C.,
and never were honours more bravely won. England has given me unstinted
praise, and her Majesty has honoured me of her own accord with the Red
Cross, of which I am proud to be the possessor.
Shortly after my arrival in England in June, I was invited to Windsor
and had an audience of her Majesty, during which I related some of my
experiences, which, I believe, interested her. The Red Cross is an honour
doubly valuable as having been presented to me by her Majesty in person;
but the warm interest she has since been pleased to take in me I look
upon as an equally great honour, and my visit to the Queen at Windsor
will for ever be remembered as a red-letter day in my existence.
Before I had been many days in England, the Princess of Wales was also
kind enough to express a wish to see me, and her royal highness has
honoured me greatly by interesting herself in me in many ways; so that
though I have lost much, I have received great sympathy; and I know that
there are few hearts in England who have not felt for me in my trouble.
But sometimes the thought of the future, and the fate in store for me,
seems very dark and dreary. Few of us are without ambitions, and I had
mine in the days that are gone; but when they have all been destroyed at
one blow, it is difficult to raise up new ones to take the place of the
old—difficult to battle for one’s self in this eager, hurrying world,
when one has grown accustomed to having someone always ready and willing
to battle for one; and difficult to accustom myself to a lonely, solitary
existence, after four years of close companionship with one whose sole
wish was to make my life happy.
Ah, well! life, after all, does not last for ever, and maybe some day
we shall awake to find ourselves in a different sphere, where our lost
ambitions may be realized, and where disappointment and death have no
part.
In this book I have endeavoured to avoid writing anything which may be
construed into an accusation or insinuation against any of the persons
concerned, whether they be alive or dead. Far be it from me to speak of
blame, or to attempt to place any extra responsibility on any one person.
It is not in my power to do so, and if it were, I should hesitate.
We know that those five brave men sacrificed their lives sooner than
listen to the terms of ignominy and disgrace proposed by their
victorious enemies. The touching answer given when the ungenerous
proposal was made to them shows that they never wavered from their
duty. ‘We cannot lay down our arms,’ they said, ‘for they belong to
Government.’ And each one met his death bravely for the honour of England.
I have since heard of the escape of most of our servants. They were made
prisoners and kept by the Jubraj in gaol for some time, but released
before the arrival of the troops. Mr. Melville’s sad fate filled all with
horror, and seemed doubly hard as he had never had anything to do with
Manipur before this year, 1891, but merely happened to be in the place at
the time.
A new Rajah has been appointed now on an entirely different footing. He
is only a little fellow of five years old, a descendant of some former
monarch, and it will be many years yet before he can govern the country
and the people, and restore the old feelings of peace which existed
between our Government and Manipur.
Those by whose orders Mr. Quinton and his companions were murdered have
paid the penalty by forfeiting, some their lives, and others their
liberty, and order is once more restored.
But in more than one home in England there is sorrow for those who are
not. Their vacant places can never be filled up, even though in time,
when the grass has grown green above them, we shall learn to think of
them not as dead, but as living elsewhere purer, truer, freer lives,
unhampered by the sorrows and cares of this world.
Time may, perhaps, do that for us, but meanwhile hearts will ache, and
longings will arise for ‘the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of
a voice that is still,’ and the hard lesson will have to be learned that
nothing is our own—no, not even those who seem part of our very lives,
around whom all our tenderest interests and highest hopes cling.
Well for us if, in learning the lesson, we keep our faith and trust in
the Being for whose pleasure we were created, and whose right it is to
demand from us what we value most. And if, when our time comes, and we
look back across the vista of years at all the disappointments and all
the sorrows, which, after all, outweigh the happiness in our lives, we
can say, ‘It was all for the best,’ then the lesson will not have been
learnt in vain, and it will indeed be well with us.
FOOTNOTES
[1] The hooluck is a black monkey, peculiar to Assam.
[2] Dhotee—the usual dress a native wears instead of trousers.
[3] Pundit—tutor or interpreter, who will coach you in a language.
[4] Khitmutghar—butler, table-servant.
[5] Bazaar—market.
[6] Belat—England.
[7] Khud—precipice, cliff.
[8] Thoppa wallah—bearer, or man who carries Thoppas.
[9] Nautch—ball.
[10] Mahout—driver.
[11] Doolies—a sort of palanquin, made of cane, in which people are
carried.
[12] Ghuddi—throne.
[13] Myouk—a civil officer in Burmah corresponding to an extra assistant
commissioner in other parts of India.
[14] Shikari—sportsman, or a man who will go out shooting for you or with
you.
[15] Baboo—native clerk.
[16] Kahars—hospital assistants.
[17] Bunnias—grain-sellers, provision merchants.
[18] Dhan—rice.
[19] Daôs—knives.
[20] Sais—groom.
[21] Peg—whisky and soda.
[22] Godowns—storehouses.
[23] Babu—office-clerk; used here as a term of contempt.
[24] 2nd-4th—2nd Battalion 4th Ghoorkas.
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
_J. D. & Co._
[Illustration]
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