FOOTNOTES:
[49] Political History of India, Major General Sir John Malcolm, K.C.B. (John Murray, 1826.)
[50] Gleig's Life of Sir Thomas Munro, Bart, K.C.B.
[51] Essays, by Sir Henry Lawrence, 1859.
[52] Kaye's Sepoy War, 1865, vol. i.
[53] Rulers of India: Earl Canning, by Sir H.S. Cunningham, K.C.S.I.
[54] Shadwell, Life of Lord Clyde, ii. 419.
[CHAPTER XV]
RECOLLECTIONS OF THE MADRAS PRESIDENCY
In May 1859 I left Calcutta, having been appointed to command the Royal Artillery in the Madras Presidency. Speaking generally, the affairs, both civil and military, of Southern India had remained for many years in a condition of comparative inaction and tranquillity. Indeed, ever since the great campaigns towards the close of the last century, ending with the fall of Seringapatam and the death of Tippoo Sahib, the tide of war had drifted away to the north-west, and the Madras army had thus been deprived of much active experience in the field. Fortunately, even the Mutiny had failed to entangle the southern native troops in its disastrous meshes. As a term, perhaps, of undeserved reproach, Madras was often called the benighted presidency. Shortly before my arrival a new Governor, Sir Charles Trevelyan had been appointed, and being a man of great energy and ability, soon succeeded in temporarily galvanising the administration into unwonted life and activity. His somewhat abnormal qualities were not, however, generally appreciated. One of his first efforts was to improve the sanitary condition of the large native city, which stretches for a mile or two along the flat, sandy, surf-beaten shore. During the latter years of the last century the city had been enclosed on its land front with a series of old bastions and curtains and a continuous stagnant ditch—works which were intended as a defence against the hordes of Mahrattas and Pindarees who were then in the habit of swooping down on our cities and settlements. But these hostile races had long ceased their swoopings and lootings, and the decaying fortifications were not only obsolete, but by their existence prevented a due circulation of light and air, and were highly insanitary. Sir Charles accordingly decided on their entire removal, and the conversion of the vacant space and of the ancient glacis into a People's Park. The idea was received with considerable scorn. Few people in Madras had ever heard of people's parks in those days. I, however, had the satisfaction of being present at the destruction by successive explosions of the old, useless bastions, and in my opinion the Governor conferred a great benefit on the city by his enlightened policy. More serious events, however, soon followed.
When the Mutiny came to an end, its financial bearings and the enormous expenditure incurred, not only on account of the large reinforcements from home, but also in the arrangements which had been necessary for the due prosecution of active operations all over the country, pressed heavily on the Government of India; and it became an urgent duty to meet the financial deficit, which amounted to several millions sterling. Amongst other measures it was decided to introduce an income tax. Sir Charles Trevelyan, backed by his council, protested against such a policy. In his opinion, an income tax, in the condition of the native feeling, was likely to revive dangerous discontent; further than this, he argued in successive despatches to Calcutta that, as the Mutiny was over, the proper way of meeting the deficit was by a reduction not only of the English reinforcements, but also by disbanding many of the new native regiments which had been hastily and temporarily raised during the crisis. Finding that his remonstrances were in vain, he at length published the entire correspondence in one of the Madras daily journals. As Governor of a presidency containing fifty millions of people, he considered it his duty that his views should be made public. The result was that in a few days he received a message by telegraph from Sir Charles Wood, the then Secretary of State for India, announcing his recall. Whether the Governor acted with due discretion in the measure he took to ensure publicity for his views, may be questioned; but, in my opinion, he was perfectly right in his main principle that, the crisis being over, the financial equilibrium could best be attained, not by unusual and obnoxious taxation, but by a reduction of the enormous military expenditure, the necessity for which had passed away, and which was eating up the resources of our empire in the East. His recall was a public misfortune.
Soon after my arrival in Madras I made the acquaintance of an old colonel, who had served many years in the country and was an excellent officer, but who, owing to absence of mind or partial loss of memory, had great difficulty in correctly remembering people's names. For instance, one morning he came into the club, and told us that he had just met Sir John Trelawney taking a walk in the park. As there was no one of that name in Madras we were rather puzzled, but on inquiry found he alluded to the Governor, Sir Charles Trevelyan. That was harmless enough, but on another occasion he fell into a more serious error. It occurred in the Neilgherries. There was a lady residing there, a Mrs. Coffin, the wife of a general officer. It is the fashion up in the hills for ladies to be carried about by coolies in a sort of sedan chair, called a tonjon. One afternoon, the general's wife was paying a visit to a neighbour, where she met the colonel, and on her rising to take leave the old officer jumped up, and, meaning to be extremely polite, said, 'Mrs. Tonjon, allow me to hand you to your coffin!'
Military service in the tropical climate of the Madras Presidency in time of peace, and with the thermometer never below 80 degrees, is not an exhilarating experience. There were no railways to speak of in those days, and no bridges over the rivers, so that during tours of inspection I had constantly to pass many weary days and nights in travelling hundreds of miles, along bad roads, over dusty plains, in what is called a bullock bandy, at the rate of two miles an hour, not including accidents, and probably without meeting a single Englishman. On one occasion, I went from Madras northwards by steamer along the coast to Masulipatam, on my way to the Deccan, and found the tomb of an old Dutch admiral, the inscription on it being as follows:
HIER LEYT BEGRA
VEN DEN. E. JACOB
DEDEL
IN SYN LEVEN RAET VAN
IN DIEN ENDE OPPER
HOOFT TE WATER ENDE
TE LANDE OVER DE NEDER
LANTSE NEGOTIE DE SER
CUST CORMANDEL. OVER
LEDEN. DEN. 29. AUGUSTY
ANNO. 1624.
(Here lies buried E. Jacob Dedel, in his lifetime Councillor of the Indies, and Commander-in-Chief on sea and land, over the Dutch Company of the Coromandel Coast. Died, 29th August, 1624.)
During 1862 I was in command of the artillery at Secunderabad, a large station near Hyderabad in the Deccan, the latter city being supposed to contain a somewhat turbulent dangerous population, but who in reality gave no trouble. The monotony of life was occasionally varied by hunting wild animals in the hills and jungles. Although a very bad shot, I took part in the sport on two special occasions. The one was in pursuit of a bear, and the other of a tiger. In the first case we rode by night to some distant hills, and were posted in the dark behind rocks by the shikarree; and, being a novice, I was given the place of honour, the native kindly remaining at my side, and explaining that the cave of the bears was just above and behind me, and that at daylight I should find several coming straight up the hill on their way home. Sure enough, as day dawned, two large black objects appeared leisurely crossing the plain, snuffing about, as they slouched along, and presently they began the ascent. The critical moment had arrived, and, on a signal from the shikarree, I fired, and the bears immediately bolted. The shikarree threw up his hands, and, much disappointed, said that my shot had missed. It was not so, however, for on going to the spot we discovered traces of blood, and were able to track the wounded animal up the hill to his home—a dark, narrow, steep cleft in the rock. Here a consultation was held, and it was decided by the experts that we must follow up the track, and enter the den. A procession was formed accordingly. First came a coolie with a long lighted torch, which he waved about and pushed into the crevices; then I followed, crawling on all fours with a gun on full-cock ready for all emergencies. Two or three companions came on similarly prepared. All at once we heard a scream and a rush, and I was about to fire at anybody or anything, and should probably have killed the coolie, when it turned out to be merely a bat fluttering against the lighted torch. The smell of bears, bats, rats, and other creatures was horrible. Still we struggled on, until the narrow tortuous passage gradually ramified into large fissures, and we then discovered that the bear had passed out of its home by another opening, and so escaped. The adventure ended, and we were glad to crawl back into the open air again.
The other expedition was also exciting in its way. In hunting tigers in Bengal it is the custom to be seated in a howdah on the back of an elephant, so as to stamp through the jungle and shoot the animals from a commanding position in comparative safety. In Madras, however, it is considered fairer to advance on foot, on the principle, I presume, of giving both sides a chance. One afternoon we were again conducted by the shikarree to a distant hill, and on an elevated plateau were all posted in a large semicircle, each hidden behind a rock, and in the centre a young kid was tied to a stone. The expectation was that the tiger would come to eat the kid, and then we were all to fire and kill the tiger. As this was my first experience, I inquired, with some interest, whether possibly the animal might not approach from behind, and begin to eat me instead of the kid. The suggestion, however, was scouted, and I was assured that it would much prefer the latter. So we took up our positions, and remained on watch. After a time the young goat, finding the entertainment dull, laid down and tried to go to sleep; but the shikarree advanced and with a knife cut a small slit in its ear, which made it bleat piteously; and this, it was hoped, would afford an additional attraction. Again we waited, and I could not refrain from occasionally looking over my shoulder, to assure myself that the expected wild beast was not surreptitiously altering the programme. It was getting dark when a breathless coolie arriving from a distant hill, brought the news that the tiger was asleep in a cave a long way off; so the kid escaped, and we all went home. I thought the sequel rather flat.
Society at Secunderabad was occasionally enlivened by amateur theatricals in the assembly rooms, and, being fond of painting, I was induced on one occasion to produce a drop-scene for the stage. One afternoon I was seated accordingly, in some old clothes, on the top of a step-ladder, with a large brush and a bucketful of sky-blue, attempting to produce some lovely cloud effects, when a private soldier of the 18th Royal Irish strolled in smoking his pipe. After admiring the scenery for some time, and evidently taking me for a professional, he remarked: 'I say, guv'nor, is that a good business out here?' My reply was, 'No, it isn't a very permanent affair, but I like it.' Then he went on, 'I think I've seed you afore' (which was probable). 'Was you ever engaged at the Surrey in London?' I said that I had been at that theatre, but had never been engaged. 'Well, then, I have seed you afore,' he continued; 'you was acting the part of Belphegor.' What play he was alluding to I had no idea, or who Belphegor was, but unfortunately at that moment a brother officer casually looked in and said, 'Well, Colonel, how are you getting on?' The soldier at once took in the situation, stood up, saluted, and saying, 'I'm thinking I'm in the presence of my supariors,' faced about and left the room. The drop-scene was finished, and was considered a great success.
[CHAPTER XVI]
RETURN TO BENGAL—AMALGAMATION OF THE ARTILLERY REGIMENTS
Towards the end of 1862 I left the Deccan on a pleasant visit to Sir William Denison, then Governor of Madras, and in February 1863, having served upwards of five years in India, was on the eve of embarkation for England when a telegram came from Sir Hugh Rose, Commander-in-Chief, inviting me to return to Bengal to become Adjutant-General of all the artillery in India. My plans were therefore entirely altered, and I embarked for Calcutta instead of England, and, after a long journey up to Meerut, joined Sir Hugh, and went with him to Simla in the Himalayas.
At this time great changes had become necessary in the army in India in consequence of the Mutiny of 1857, and of the subsequent discontent of the local European forces in 1859. In fact, the whole administration, both civil and military, was undergoing revision and reform. The direct assumption of the government of India by the Crown, and the disappearance of the old East India Company, though a beneficial change in itself, still naturally caused some confusion and revived old controversies. Hitherto there had been two armies in the country, serving side by side, with two separate staffs, with somewhat different sentiments, and not devoid of feelings of jealousy. The artillery were specially affected by the contemplated changes. Although in the early days of the East India Company a battery or two from England had occasionally served in India, still they were exceptions, and for many years each presidency had maintained a regiment of its own, partly English, partly native; and as we gradually conquered one province after another, they took part in many campaigns, performing distinguished services, and were deservedly held in high esteem. Therefore, when it became evident that unity of administration must be introduced as regards our military forces, and when, in the autumn of 1862, the three regiments of Indian artillery were incorporated with the Royal—losing, as it were, their separate individuality—it was only natural that the officers and men of all the four corps should have felt some regret at an arrangement which, however necessary it might be, was not in accord with old feelings and sentiments. All organised bodies may be said to be conservative, in so far that they dislike change.
The foregoing remarks may be sufficient to indicate the general conditions of the artillery problem when I was invited to become the chief staff officer, and to carry out the amalgamation. There were not only sentimental feelings and differences to be considered, but the systems of training, discipline, and even the matériel, were all to some extent different. Still, all these were comparatively minor and transient questions; and I fully recognised in the first place that whilst the batteries of old Royal Artillery would benefit by the wide experience of service in India—from which, previous to the Mutiny, they had been debarred—those of the local regiments would, on the other hand, benefit even more largely by periodical return to England, especially in these days of constant change and progress in the science of artillery. It was with these views that I entered on the somewhat difficult task of producing unity of system and of feeling in the hundred and four batteries which at that time were serving in India. Sir Hugh Rose, the Commander-in-Chief in India, and H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge, the head of the Army at home, were in full accord in these matters; and notwithstanding certain differences of opinion, I also received loyal support from the officers of artillery all over the country, so that in the course of 1863 all real difficulties gradually disappeared. My great desire was, as far as possible, to respect the interests of all, and to promote unity, not only as good in itself, but also as conducing to the efficiency of the regiment and to the advantage of the State. It was not altogether an easy task, but I was amply rewarded by the generous confidence of my brother officers. Reminiscences of the bygone system of the East India Company still, however, prevailed more or less in the councils of the Government of India, and nothing could be more difficult than the position of Sir Hugh Rose at that period of change; and it was a pleasure to me to serve under, and if possible to assist, so distinguished a soldier and one with whom I had been in frequent association during the Crimean war. Lord Elgin was at that time Viceroy, and I had one or two conversations with him regarding the alleged danger from the turbulent population of Hyderabad, and gave my opinion that these fears were exaggerated, and that, especially with a Prime Minister such as Salar Jung, there need be no real apprehension of an outbreak.
It is sometimes supposed that red tape is peculiar to official departments at home, but that is an error. There are large consignments of it sent to India, and I will give an instance. One day at Simla an old artillery officer called and requested me to give him a certificate of his being alive, as the audit office refused to give him his pay without it. He seemed to be well and lively, and I therefore complied at once; and as his visit was in August, dated it accordingly. On looking at it, he remarked: 'Ah, you have dated it August. That is of no use. I have already sent them one of that kind, but what they require is a certificate that I was alive in July.' This opened out a new aspect of the case, but, after consideration, I certified that to the best of my belief he was living the previous month. Whether he ever received his pay, I am not sure.
[CHAPTER XVII]
FRONTIER CAMPAIGN IN THE AFGHAN MOUNTAINS—ITS ORIGIN—POLITICAL AND MILITARY DIFFICULTIES
In the autumn of 1863 our somewhat tedious devotion to military administration in all its complicated details was suddenly interrupted by the outbreak of hostilities on the north-west frontier, which rapidly and unexpectedly developed into a war of considerable magnitude in the Afghan mountains. Its origin was of a rather singular and exceptional character. For many years previously a number of violent fanatical outlaws, chiefly from the lower provinces of Bengal, hundreds of miles away, had fled from our territories, and settled amongst the independent Afghan tribes who live in the countries across the border. These outlaws, occasionally reinforced by disaffected Mohammedans from the plains, lived chiefly in a village called 'Sitana' on the lower slopes of the Mahabun mountain, about forty miles north of the old Mogul fortress of Attock, and on the western side of the Indus—hence their name of Sitana fanatics. Their ordinary occupation consisted of incursions into the plains of Eusofzye, and in robbing and murdering peaceful traders in our territories. In 1858 the late Sir Sydney Cotton led an expedition against them and burnt some of their villages; but as they were harboured, and probably to some extent encouraged, by their Afghan neighbours, and as the country of their adoption was devoid of roads and almost inaccessible, they soon re-established themselves in the large new village of Mulka, high up on the slopes of the mountain, and re-commenced their depredations. It was under these circumstances that a fresh expedition was determined on; and as, from causes which were not foreseen at the outset, it rapidly developed into a considerable campaign, it will be interesting to take a short survey of the conditions, military and political, of our north-west border.
SKETCH MAP OF NORTH-WEST FRONTIER
A glance at the map will show that our frontier in that part of India is composed of great rugged mountain ridges which, radiating southerly from the Hindoo Koosh, terminate somewhat abruptly in the plains, and form, as it were, a great natural boundary of the Empire. These mountains are inhabited by tribes who, though Afghan in language, religion, and race, are for the most part independent of the ruler at Cabul. They are poor but brave, fanatical, and half civilised, and are governed by native 'jirgahs' or councils; and, although turbulent and difficult to deal with, still have a great love of their country and cherish its independence, possessing qualities that we admire in ourselves, and which deserve consideration and respect. Except in the narrow and secluded valleys there is little cultivation, and the whole country is almost devoid of roads, beyond mere goat paths. Military operations are therefore difficult. The Commander-in-Chief, when the expedition was under consideration, pointed out that the season was late, as snow falls in November, and that to march a force through such a country of scant resources would necessitate careful preparations and ample transport, and he advised postponement until the following spring; but his views were disregarded by the Punjab Government, who entered into the campaign in a somewhat heedless, lighthearted fashion, which speedily brought its own punishment. It is further to be remembered that in those days our line of frontier for hundreds of miles was guarded chiefly by the Punjab Irregular Force, consisting of about 10,000 men of all arms recruited from the martial races within our border, many of whom were really Afghans in religion and race. Strange to relate, also, this army was under the orders of the Punjab Government, and altogether independent of the Commander-in-Chief. To guard a long and exposed frontier by native levies raised on the spot, and to the almost total exclusion of English soldiers, was a bold and possibly a dangerous policy; but to increase the risk by a complex division of military authority appears to be a violation of all commonly received maxims of war.
The force decided on for the Sitana expedition consisted of about 6,000 men, chiefly of the Punjab force just mentioned, to which, however, was added the 71st Highlanders, the 101st Bengal Fusiliers, and a battery of Royal Artillery, with its field guns carried on elephants. The Government were fortunate in one respect, that the expedition was placed under the command of Sir Neville Chamberlain, an officer of long experience and of the highest ability and courage. Indeed, it was a happy circumstance that in the serious complications and hard fighting which ensued a man of such great qualities should have been at the head of affairs; and although he was struck down and severely wounded before the operations came to an end, still it may be admitted, without disparagement of his successor, that the neck of the confederacy had been broken by his vigorous measures, and that the tribes were sick at heart and weary of the combat.
In entering on a campaign against the Sitana fanatics, who doubtless were tolerated and harboured by the inhabitants, it must still be borne in mind that in crossing the border we were entering upon foreign territory; and a question therefore arose as to the light in which our suspicious Afghan neighbours would regard our advance. There was also another important point which must not be overlooked. In determining the exact direction of our march, it was considered, as a matter of strategy, that instead of moving straight up the mountain, towards the enemy's stronghold, we should enter the country by the Umbeylah Pass, a narrow gorge to the west of the Mahabun, and proceed through the Chumla Valley on its north side (see map); and thus by a flank march, as it were, attack the fanatics in rear and cut off their line of retreat. Our intentions in this respect were kept secret. In a military point of view the proposal had advantages, but politically it had quite another aspect—it being evident that we were thus entering the territory of neighbours, many miles distant from the real object of the expedition, who might, and indeed did, at once take violent exception to our proceedings. Official documents published afterwards explain this clearly. Speaking of the intended march through the pass, Colonel Taylor, the commissioner with the expedition, wrote: 'It was, under the circumstances, impossible to examine the proposed route by questioning those of our own territories best acquainted with it, without raising suspicions as to the line we proposed to take in entering the hills.' Again, General Chamberlain's first despatch after the advance of the force, on October 20, said: 'I should here mention that on the afternoon of the 19th,[55] when it would be too late for the Chumla or other tribes to make any preparations on a large scale for impeding the march of the troops through the Umbeylah Pass, a proclamation was forwarded by the commissioner, to the Chumla and Bonair tribes, stating the object with which the force was about to enter the Chumla Valley, and assuring them that it was with no intention of injuring them, or of interfering with their independence; but solely because it was the most convenient route by which to reach the Hindostanee fanatics, and to effect their expulsion from the Mahabun.'
But the question was, in what light were the Bonairs and others likely to regard our sudden and unexpected arrival at the door of their house, our purpose having been carefully hid until the time for their objecting or defending themselves had passed away? The late Major James, who was the commissioner when peace was made, alluding to these circumstances, makes a significant remark: 'Even supposing, therefore,' he says, 'that the proclamations actually reached their destination, was it likely that a brave race of ignorant men would pause to consider the purport of a paper they could not read, when the arms of a supposed invader were glistening at their doors?' It so happened, also, that the fanatics, when they heard of the assembly of our troops in the plains and became aware that we were about to call them to account, although not cognisant of our exact plan, nevertheless wrote a very crafty letter to their neighbours, which subsequently fell into our hands, as follows: 'The evil-doing infidels[56] will plunder and devastate the whole of the hilly tract, especially the provinces of Chumla, Bonair, Swat, &c., and annex those countries to their dominions, and then our religion and worldly possessions would entirely be subverted. Consequently, keeping in consideration a regard for Islam, the dictates of faith, and worldly affairs, you ought by no means to neglect the opportunity. The infidels are extremely deceitful and treacherous, and will by whatever means they can come into these hills, and declare to the people of the country that they have no concerns with them, that their quarrel is with the Hindostanees, that they will not molest the people, even as much as touch a hair of their heads, but will return immediately after having extirpated the Hindostanees, and that they will not interfere with their country. They will also tempt the people with wealth. It is therefore proper for you not to give in to their deceit, or else, when they should get an opportunity, they will entirely ruin, torment, and put you to many indignities, appropriate to themselves your entire wealth and possessions, and injure your faith.'
From the foregoing remarks it will, I think, be evident that our policy was not only somewhat rash, but was not altogether straightforward. In the first place, we undertook the expedition with an inadequate force, chiefly comprised of native troops, raised on the spot, at a late season of the year, and without sufficient preparations as to supplies and transport; in the next, we attempted to march through a country inhabited by tribes with whom we had no cause of quarrel, and from whom we carefully concealed our intentions. The result of the first day's march (October 20) brought matters to a climax, and instead of being able to cut off the 'Sitana' fanatics, we found ourselves face to face with the Bonair and other tribes, whose territory we had invaded, and who, scoffing at our professed strategy, at once united and determined if possible to drive us out of their country. The whole condition of affairs was thus entirely altered, and General Chamberlain found himself holding the end of a narrow gorge, with steep mountains running up several thousand feet on either side, and attacked incessantly day and night, not only in front, but on either flank.
In the meantime another unfortunate circumstance had occurred. It so happened that towards the end of October both the Viceroy and Sir Hugh Rose had left Simla, on short expeditions towards the distant ranges of the Himalayas. Accidentally I had seen Lord Elgin when he started, and he appeared to be in good health; soon afterwards, however, owing, it was supposed, to his having ascended and crossed some high passes, or whatever the cause, he suddenly became dangerously ill with an affection of the heart, and when he arrived at Drumsala in the Kangra Valley, his case was deemed hopeless. Sir Hugh also, for the moment, was almost out of reach, but on hearing of the untoward development of the military operations, he at once proceeded to Lahore, where his staff joined him in November. The successive despatches of General Chamberlain give a clear account of the altered condition of affairs. Writing on October 23, he said: 'The Bonair people having thus taken a hostile part against us is extremely serious, and has altered our whole position and probably our plan of operations.' He then goes on to explain the necessity of guarding his communications through the pass, and asks for reinforcements. Again, on October 25, he writes: 'There appears to be reason to believe that the Bonair people have applied to the Akoond of Swat for aid, and should they succeed in enlisting him in their cause—which is not improbable, as they are his spiritual followers—the object with which this force took the road to the Chumla Valley would be still more difficult of attainment.'