First, there was Colonel Kilbaugh, a colonel of cavalry and ex-resident of Paugulabad, who, in spite of his high-heeled Hobys, was a diminutive figure, pompous, as little men generally are, and so anxious, apparently, to convince the world that he had a soul above his inches, that egad, sir, it was dangerous for a man above the common standard of humanity to look at him, or differ in opinion in the slightest degree. His was in truth
A fiery soul, which, working out its way,
Fretted the pigmy body to decay.
He excelled (in his own estimation) in long stories, which he told with an extraordinary minuteness of detail. They generally began with, “Shortly after I was appointed to the residency of Paugulabad,” or, “The year before, or two years after, I left the residency of Paugulabad:” in short, that was his chronological starting-point. The colonel’s yarns principally (though not entirely) related to wonderful sporting exploits, and the greater the bounce the more scrupulously exact was he in the minutiæ, magnanimously disregarding the terrors of cross-examination, should a seven-foot mortal venture one. “It was the largest tiger that, sir, I ever killed; he stood 4 feet 4¾ inches to the top of his shoulder—4 feet 4¾ was it, by-the-bye?—no, I’m wrong; 4 feet 4½. I killed him with a double Joe I got from our doctor; I think it was the cold season before I left the residency of Paugulabad.” It was one of the most amusing things in the world to see him marching up and down the poop with our Colossus of a skipper—“Ossa to a wart”—one little fin of a hand behind his back, and laying down the law with the other; skipper, with an eye to future recommendation, very deferential of course.
Next, in point of rank, was Mr. Goldmore, an ex-judge of the Sudder Dewanny Adawlut; a man of birth and education, and an excellent sample of the distinguished service to which he belonged. His manners were kind and urbane, though he was a little peppery sometimes, particularly when I beat him at chess. He had come home a martyr to liver; and the yellow cheek, the lacklustre eye, and the feeble step, all told too plainly that he was returning to die. His wife, fifteen years younger than himself, exhibited beside him a striking contrast; she, “buxom, blithe, and debonnair”—a vigorous plant in florid pride; he, poor fellow, in the “sear and yellow” leaf. She was a warm-hearted, excellent creature, native goodness beaming in her eye, but had one fault, and that a prominent one. Having in India, as is often the case with the sex, been thrown much at out-stations amongst male society, she had insensibly adopted a “mannish” tone, used terms of Indian conventional slang—bad in a man, but odious from female lips—laughed heartily at stories seasoned with equivoque, and sometimes told such herself with off-hand naïveté at the cuddy-table, producing a wink from Mr. Grinnerson to Ensign O’Shaughnessy, and an uncommon devotion to his plate on the part of Mr. Goldmore himself.
Major Rantom, of the Dragoons—soldierly, gentleman-like, and five-and-thirty—commanded the detachment of troops, to which were attached Ensigns Gorman and O’Shaughnessy, two fine “animals,” that had recently been caught in the mountains of Kerry; and an ancient centurion, Capt. Marpeet, of the Native Infantry, must conclude these samples of the masculine gender. Marpeet was a character, upon the whole—a great man for short whist and Hodgson’s pale ale. The Sporting Magazine, Taplin’s Farriery, and Dundas’s Nineteen Manœuvres, seemed to have constituted the extent of his reading, though some conversation he one day had about “zubber, zeer, and pesh,” and that profound work the Tota Kuhannee, seemed to indicate that he had at least entered on the flowery paths of Oriental literature. Dundas, however, was his strong point—his tower of strength—his one idea. Ye powers! how amazingly convincing and fluent he was when he took that subject in hand! Many a tough discussion would he have with the pompous little colonel, whether the right or left stood fast, &c., and who, having been a Resident, and knowing, therefore, everything, of course knew something of that also.
But places aux demoiselles! make way for the spinsters! Let me introduce to the reader’s acquaintance Miss Kitty and Miss Olivia Jenkins, Miss Maria Balgrave, and Miss Anna Maria Sophia Dobbikins. The first two were going to their father, a general officer in the Madras Presidency; the eldest, Kitty, was a prude, haunted by the “demon of propriety,” the youngest, dear Olivia, a perfect giggle—with such a pair of eyes!—but “thereby hangs a tale.” Miss Maria Balgrave was consigned to a house of business in Calcutta, to be forwarded, by the first safe conveyance, up the country to her dear friend Mrs. Kurrybhat, the lady of Ensign Kurrybhat, who had invited her out; she was very plain, but of course possessed its usual concomitant, great amiability of temper. Miss Dobbikins was a Bath and Clifton belle, hackneyed and passé, but exhibiting the remains of a splendid face and figure; it was passing strange that so fine a creature should have attained a certain age without having entered that state which she was so well calculated to adorn, whilst doubtless many a snub-nosed thing had gone off under her own nose. I have seen many such cases; and it is a curious problem for philosophical investigation, why those whom “every one” admires “nobody” marries.
Having given these sketches of a few of my companions, let me now proceed with my voyage. Leaving Deal we had to contend with contrary winds, and when off Portsmouth, they became so adverse, that the captain determined on dropping anchor, and there wait a favourable change. In three days the wind became light, veered to the proper quarter, and our final departure was fixed for the following morning. My last evening off Portsmouth long remained impressed on my memory. Full often, in my subsequent wanderings in the silent forest or the lonely desert, in the hushed camp, or on the moon-lit rampart, where nought save the sentinel’s voice broke through the silence of the night, have I pictured this last aspect of my native land. I had been engaged below, inditing letters for home and other occupations, the whole day, when, tired of the confinement, I mounted on the poop: the parting glow of a summer’s evening rested on the scene—a tranquillity and repose little, alas! in consonance with the state of my feelings, once more painfully excited at the prospect of the severance from all that was dear to me. Hitherto excitement had sustained me, but now I felt it in its full force.
Land of my sires, what mortal hand
Can e’er untie the filial band