Port Blair is a long, ragged indentation, about seven miles from head to mouth, broken and diversified by numerous little bays and promontories. The shores—intersected by numerous roads—are almost entirely cleared from jungle, and since they have been in this condition, fever has been practically unknown amongst the European community.
Passing first close by the suburb of Aberdeen, which is on the mainland just opposite Ross, we obtained a good view of the Cellular Jail, a huge building of red-brown bricks, with long arms—three storeys in height—stretching from a common centre like the rays of a starfish. It has been built almost entirely from local resources, and with local establishment and labour, and holds 663 cells and the accompanying jail buildings. Here each newcomer is incarcerated in solitude for six months, with the double intention of such confinement acting both as a moral sedative and a warning of what may happen again if his behaviour is not satisfactory in future.
We steamed along past the brickfields; the kilns, where, from the raw coral, lime is manufactured; but as the salt cannot be thoroughly washed out, and subsequently effloresces from the mortar, the result is a rather inferior quality.
At Phœnix Bay, a little farther up the harbour, where we landed to inspect the shipyard and workshops, are sheds fitted up with apparatus for blacksmiths and latheworkers, carpenters and woodcarvers, where occupation is provided for more than 600 skilled workmen. The numerous boats one sees passing to and fro in the harbour are built here, for the shipyard can undertake anything from a 250-ton lighter or 70-feet steam-launch down to a half—rater or the smallest dinghy. The materials for construction are close to hand, since the woods used (padouk for the planking and pyimma for frames) are obtained from the neighbouring forests.
Some years ago Phœnix Bay was a swamp, but now large, brick, steam workshops and wooden sheds of the marine yard, in which the lighters and launches are constructed and repaired, stand on the land reclaimed; and connected with these is a slipway, one of the largest in India, that is entirely of local construction—the whole of the ironwork of the carriage, rails, wheels, and ratchet, having been cast on the spot.
Almost opposite Phœnix Bay, the station of Hopetown, conspicuous by its aqueduct, stands on the northern shore. It was here that in 1872 Lord Mayo, the most popular of Indian Viceroys, was murdered by a fanatical prisoner.
ANDAMANESE MEN.
The Viceroy had visited Mount Harriet in order to judge of its suitability as a sanatorium, and had just finished the descent. "... The ships' bells had just rung seven; the launch, with steam up, was whizzing at the jetty stairs; a group of her seamen were chatting on the pierhead. It was now quite dark, and the black line of the jungle seemed to touch the water's edge. The party passed some large loose stones to the left of the head of the pier, and advanced along the jetty, two torchbearers in front ... and the Viceroy stepped quickly forward before the rest to descend the stairs to the launch. The next moment the people in the rear heard a noise, as of 'the rush of some animal,' from behind the loose stones; one or two saw a hand and a knife suddenly descend in the torch-light. The private secretary heard a thud, and instantly turning round, found a man 'fastened like a tiger' on the back of the Viceroy. In a second, twelve men were on the assassin; an English officer was pulling them off, and with his sword hilt keeping back the native guards, who would have killed the assailant on the spot. The torches had gone out; but the Viceroy, who had staggered over the pier side, was dimly seen rising up in the knee-deep water and clearing the hair off his brow with his hand, as if recovering himself. His private secretary was instantly by his side in the surf, helping him up the bank. 'Burne,' he said quietly, 'they've hit me.' Then in a louder voice, which was heard on the pier—'I'm all right, I don't think I'm much hurt,' or words to that effect. In another minute he was sitting under the smoky glare of the re-lit torches, on a rude native cart at the side of the jetty, his legs hanging loosely down. Then they lifted him bodily out of the cart, and saw a great dark patch on the back of his light coat. The blood came streaming out, and the men tried to stanch it with their handkerchiefs. For a moment or two he sat up in the cart, then he fell heavily backwards. 'Lift up my head,' he said faintly; and said no more."[8]
Leaving Phœnix Bay, we steamed past Chatham Island, where the sawmills are situated, and where a number of hospital convalescents are kept busy with the easy task of manufacturing rope and mats from the coir prepared in Viper Jail. On the approach of a hurricane, vessels in port proceed up harbour and anchor above this island, where they are secure from all danger.