With the Connaught Rangers

by Edward Herbert Maxwell

On the evening of the 16th of November, we got into the train for our final journey. It was daylight when we descended the Ghauts, a most wonderful piece of engineering. The railway goes down a sheer fall of nineteen hundred feet, in a succession of zig-zags. Our train was a long one. The carriage we were in was at the end, and, in looking out of the window, the engine, with its following, seemed another train on quite a different line far below us.

It was the afternoon when we reached Bombay. It has left no very distinct impression on my mind, as we proceeded direct from the station to the tug, which took us off to the huge Jumna, that was lying waiting for us. We were fortunate in every respect in our voyage in her. The weather was perfect, and Captain Richards, the captain of H.M.S. Jumna, was unvaryingly kind and courteous. On the 17th of November, the shores of India faded away, never to be looked on by me again. The splendid ship we were in, with its luxurious comforts, was a contrast to the vessel in which I had come out to India thirteen years before.

Now, on our return home, we were embarked in a magnificent troopship. I think there were seventeen hundred souls on board, but everything was in such beautiful order that there was no confusion. My regiment got on capitally, and Captain Richards reported very favourably of the men’s conduct when in his ship.

1870–71 was the last season that regiments were conveyed across the isthmus from Suez to Alexandria by train. We left the Jumna with much regret. The train was drawn up almost immediately alongside. We started in the evening from Suez, and arrived at Alexandria about seven o’clock next morning—one man short. He got out in the desert to get a drink—as we heard long afterwards—and the train went on without him, in consequence of which he lost his home passage, as well as his train. On arrival at Alexandria, we embarked at once on a tug, and proceeded on board the Crocodile. One of the many children that were accompanying their parents home distinguished himself on the short trajet from the wharf to the troopship by carefully untying the fastenings of a cage-door, and letting loose a very valuable minar, which the unconscious owner had brought at great trouble to himself from the far north of India. I do not think he ever knew how his bird escaped. Minars speak most perfectly, much more distinctly and with a better imitation of the human voice than a parrot.

It is very annoying losing a pet, especially when the conviction must be that it will inevitably come to grief. I recall a curious case of the sort which happened in Scotland at my old home. My sister-in-law had a parrot, which had been the object of her care for many years. In fine summer weather, when the windows were open, it flew out, and enjoyed itself very much among the trees in front of the house, and, when called, returned to its cage. One day a sudden gale of wind came on, and the poor bird was carried away before it. A great search was made; but it never came back. My sister read in the county paper an advertisement, couched in the following term: ‘Found, a parrot. Anyone having lost the same, apply to,’ &c., &c. In hopes that this referred to her lost favourite, she wrote a full description of Lorry, and anxiously waited for the reply. Her disappointment was great when she received the following answer to her application: ‘Milady, i am sorry to say that it was a farot’ (ferret), ‘and not a parot, that was found.’

The Crocodile was a fac-simile of the Jumna, with the exception of not being painted white. In the Mediterranean, we were caught in a gale, and found that the Crocodile was not distinguished without cause for her powers of rolling. The storm delayed us three days, as we could make no headway against the wind. It was the last rough weather we encountered, but as we neared our own latitudes the cold became intense. Nothing could have looked much more miserable than we poor denizens of a warm climate did that 21st of December, as, with eager eyes and longing expectation, we crowded the sides, and looked at the goal of our hopes for long years—home! Take the Solent on a fine, bright, sunny day in summer, with yachts and pleasure-boats glancing over the surface of the rippling water, and you will say it is a fair sight to see, but what we looked on now was a grey and leaden sky, the whole country under snow, and an occasional flake in the air, proving there was a good deal more to fall. Slowly we came into our berth alongside the quay, and it did seem a realization of our long dreams when friends and relations flocked over the gangway, and warmly welcomed us back to the old country.

The next day we disembarked. The snow that had been threatening was now falling, and it was freezing very hard. One month previous the sun was shining and the thermometer marked 86°. The men of the 88th, with their white-covered helmets on their heads, had, like all of us, red noses and yellow faces. We thought it was positively cruel to bring us suddenly from intense heat to bitter cold, but, in spite of shudders and chattering teeth, we all felt an exhilarating glow on that 22nd of December, 1870, when we disembarked during an eclipse of the sun and in a blinding snowstorm. The 88th regiment proceeded to Fort Grange, and that night thirty men were taken into hospital with bronchitis. The regiment did not remain very long quartered in the forts, but were moved over to Portsmouth, where it occupied the Cambridge Barracks.

What a changed place is Portsmouth now that the old walls have been removed! It has assumed a gay and youthful look. Midshipman Easy would not recognise it, and the old tars of former days would feel quite adrift. The last ten years have greatly improved its outward appearance. It was always a favourite quarter, being so near the Isle of Wight, and the young officers of the different regiments stationed in Portsmouth and the neighbourhood kept the ‘tambourin a-roulin,’ as no doubt they do still.

There was a good anecdote told about the subaltern of the main guard at Portsmouth during the time that a noble lord was commanding the district. A ball was to take place at the Southsea Rooms, and, as ill-luck would have it, the hero of my story was in orders for guard the very day of the ball, and could get no one to exchange duties with him. Despair filled his mind, for she was to be there, and he was engaged to her for several dances. Cupid, they say, laughs at locksmiths, so, I presume, goes into fits when a subaltern’s guard is mentioned as an excuse for being a recreant knight. So our hero decided he would, like Cinderella, go to the ball for only a certain time. As the other officers were in uniform, his costume was not remarkable, but he kept his eyes on the general, and once, when whispering soft words into his fair one’s ears, he saw his lordship give a start as he looked towards him, and felt sure he saw his lips form themselves into the appearance of a strong expletive.

In a short time the general called his aide-de-camp, and our young warrior looked out for squalls. He followed his lordship to the door, saw him get into his carriage, and heard him give the order, ‘To the main guard!’ Away flew the fiery steeds. On arrival of the general, ‘Guard turn out!’ was shouted. Everything was correct. The officer was at his post, and reported ‘all correct.’ This ought to have been sufficient for the visiting officer, and satisfied him that he had made a mistake, but, if all stories be true, the then commander-in-chief at Portsmouth never made a mistake, in his own opinion. He called the young officer to him, and asked him, ‘Did I not see you, a few moments ago, in the Southsea ball-room?’ And the only reply he got was, ‘How could that be, sir, as I am now here in command of my guard?’