A Soldier of the Legion / An Englishman's Adventures Under the French Flag in Algeria and Tonquin

by George Manington

The Asiatic population of Hanoï is very dense, and in 1902 consisted of 100,000 Annamese and 3,500 Celestials. According to the returns, there were 6,110 native houses in the city, covering a total area of about 165 acres.

The French may well be proud of the European quarter of the capital of Tonquin, for its fine, well-laid-out boulevards and streets, handsome public buildings, big shops, comfortable hotels and well-appointed cafés would do honour to the prèfecture towns of Southern France, such as Arles, Avignon, or Montpelier. Though the principal thoroughfares of the town do not present the busy appearance of our Eastern commercial centres, such as Singapore or Hong-Kong, and one does not meet the hurrying throngs that give to these two cities the characteristics of Anglo-Saxon activity, yet the prospect of the Rue Paul Bert, the principal street at Hanoï, at the hour of the aperitif, is extremely pleasing, and reminds one of the Parisian boulevards. In front of the more important cafés the pavement is occupied by the numerous round marble-topped tables so dear to the boulevardier. After five o'clock every evening these terraces are crowded with habitués who, while sipping their iced absinthe, vermouth or bitter, sit enjoying the cool breeze, exchanging the tittle-tattle of the town, discussing the latest departmental or social scandal, or watching the passing carriages—smart little victorias or dog-carts drawn by diminutive, well-groomed ponies, and provided with yellow-skinned coachmen and "tigers," glorious in their neat liveries and top-boots. At this hour the ladies of the colony, whose means permit of this luxury, drive through the town, out to the fine botanical and zoological gardens, and alight at the Kiosque, to enjoy a stroll in the fresh of the evening, and to listen to the band or partake of a cup of tea or an iced sorbet. The male sex is also en evidence at these gatherings and promenades; consequently the toilettes are brilliant and of the latest fashion, and, with a slight flight of fancy, one might imagine oneself back at the Cascade or the Pré Catalan in the Bois de Boulogne. In 1893, as it is to-day, the palace of the Governor-General, the residence of the Commander-in-Chief, and the offices of the Headquarter Staff are situated in a portion of the town known as the Concession—a strip of ground fronting the river, about 1 mile long by 700 yards broad. This small territory was conceded to the French in 1882 by the Emperor of Annam, and, together with the Concession at Haïphong, which was occupied a few years previously, it may be said to represent the first foothold of France in Tonquin.

The public buildings in the Concession are well built, and are surrounded by fine gardens. The town is provided with a splendid system of surface drainage; it is lighted throughout with electricity, and possesses an adequate water supply, which, however, is the cause of some complaint, owing to the fact that the water is pumped from wells situated in the native quarter of the town and close to the river, from which, it is more than probable, there exists a considerable infiltration.

In the centre of the European quarter of Hanoï there is a lake. The borders of this are covered with trees and shrubs and laid out with paths framed in verdure, so that the effect of the whole is charming. There are two small islands on the lake, and on each of these is a small pagoda. On the largest island, which can be reached by a fine native bridge, about 30 yards long, built of ironwood, is a beautiful, though small, specimen of a native temple, known as the pagoda of the isle of Jade, and for the last five hundred years it has been the rendezvous for the literati of the capital. The zoological and botanical garden, to which reference has already been made, is situated in the extreme north-west corner of the city. It is splendidly laid out, and covers several acres of ground. It is here that the "Society" of Hanoï comes to drive or promenade of an evening before dinner; and its fine avenues, flower-beds, groves and lawns compare favourably with the Cinnamon Gardens in Colombo, or the waterfall at Penang. The roads throughout the town are wide and well built, and in this respect, as in the laying out of the streets, and the style of architecture adapted for the government buildings or for private residences, the French are by far our superiors. This is due partly to the naturally artistic taste they possess, and also to the wise regulations adopted by the Public Works Department in the colony, with regard to the construction of new buildings, all plans having to be approved by the Department before a permit to commence building is granted.

In July, 1892, when I had arrived in Bac-Ninh, it seemed, after my protracted stay in the wild regions of the upper Yen-Thé, that at last I had returned to a large town, and the sight of a few scores of brick buildings was, for the first few days, quite a novelty; but when, six months later, I found myself in the capital of Tonquin, it was like getting back to a big European city, and, though we sometimes regretted the charms of our former adventurous existence, both Lipthay and myself soon began to find a new pleasure in the renewed acquaintance with the comforts and distractions of civilisation. We were not as free as we had been at Bac-Ninh, as we were lodged in a room set apart for us, in the barracks of the 9th Regiment of Infanterie de Marine, and were for a few days the pet grievance of the "non-coms" of that corps, who put us on fatigue duty and made us take part in the inspections. This, however, was soon stopped by the Chief of the Staff, and we were allowed to continue the even tenour of our way. There is always a certain amount of jealousy felt for the scribes of the army, and the French sergeants were probably indignant at the thought that we were drawing as much pay as they were, that we were allowed out every night till 10 p.m., and also because we took our meals at the canteen, in a room specially reserved for us. The latter arrangement was adopted to avoid indiscretions, for a few of us were continually and unavoidably in possession of facts it was of absolute importance the majority of the troops should not learn.

For the next twelve months we continued our somewhat uneventful life as staff secretaries within the ancient precincts of the Annamese citadel, the only break in the monotony of our career being my promotion to the grade of corporal, which occurred in November. I had waited a long time for my stripes, and should have had them sooner had I remained with my corps; but till then there had been no vacancy on the staff for a "non-com," so I had nothing to complain of. In February our offices were again moved, this time to the Concession, in a building close to the Headquarters Staff, and we were lodged with the secretaries of that organisation. Since I had come to Hanoï my health had considerably improved; and very soon after my arrival I was no longer troubled with the attacks of malaria, which formerly, at almost regular intervals, used to lay me up for a day, and sometimes more. The change of air was, I suppose, chiefly responsible for the amelioration, and the better food and more comfortable quarters probably helped to mend matters. Life in the capital was very agreeable, though during the summer months the heat was terrible. This is due to the fact that, because of the low situation of the city, the south-west monsoon is little felt there. The French colonials I happened to come in contact with were extremely kind and hospitable, and during my military career I made several acquaintances which ripened into friendships that never failed me during the subsequent years passed in the colony as a civilian. The French settler, be he either planter, merchant, manufacturer or shopkeeper, is one of the hardest workers I have ever seen. He possesses an admirable faith in the rich country he has adopted, and a supreme contempt for his government, which seems to delight in throwing every possible obstacle in the way of private enterprise, and in ever increasing the number of functionaries he has to pay for.

In April, 1894, General Pernot practically reached the age-limit of his rank, and returned to France, his place being taken by General Coronnat. At the time he took over the command he was the youngest Brigadier-General in the French army, having, thanks to the services he had rendered to the Republic, and to his wide knowledge of his profession, attained that rank when most officers in France's forces esteem themselves happy if they are in command of a regiment. This distinguished soldier was by birth a Basque, the son of a modest cooper, who plied his trade in a small and picturesque village situated at the foot of the rugged and majestic Pyrenees; but he was in demeanour, speech and conduct, one of the truest gentlemen it has been my lot to encounter. Tall, and somewhat sparse, fair, with blue piercing eyes, a straight thin nose, a small light-coloured moustache, and a very strong chin. When listening he was reserved, attentive and courteous; when speaking his voice was wonderfully soft for a military man, and as clear as a bell. On first acquaintance he appeared to affect a certain aloofness; but this was only apparent, and was due, most probably, to the erectness of his bearing, and to his habit of speaking but little, and of fixing his eyes on the person who was addressing him, so that, unless they were acquainted with this particularity, he would stare them out of countenance. Having gained a hard-earned scholarship, the General obtained his grade of sub-lieutenant by passing through the military school of St Cyr, instead of being obliged, like many of small means, to work his way up from the ranks.

The work of pacification went on steadily, but it was destined that I should remain at my post on the Brigade, and take no active part in the different expeditions sent against the pirates and rebels in 1894-95. In October, 1894, I lost my friend Lipthay. He died in the military hospital at Hanoï, worn out with fever and debility acquired during our campaigns in Yen-Thé. I was by him almost to the end, and he passed away calm and courageous, like the noble, true-hearted gentleman he had always proved himself to be. He had been promoted to the rank of sergeant, and had been made a Knight of the Dragon of Annam shortly before his death.

On the 27th February, 1895, I was liberated, having completed a period of five years under the French flag. The experience I had gained was invaluable, and I felt no regret for the step I had taken in enlisting. Nevertheless it was with an emotion akin to delight that I hailed my return to the liberties of civilian life. It should, however, be mentioned that I experienced a certain regret at severing my connection with the French army and the Legion.