New Year’s Day is a great holiday in India, the birthday, so to speak, of the Queen-Empress, January 1st being the anniversary of the Delhi Durbar when she was declared Empress of India. There are endless big parades all over India in honour of this occasion. At Calcutta there is always a most imposing military parade which everybody turns out to witness, putting on their best bibs and tuckers, as their share in its impressiveness.
It is a busy and anxious day for the Military Secretary, for in addition to all his other work he is wondering whether after all his training, the Viceroy’s charger will behave properly when the dreaded moment arrives for the firing of the feu-de-joie. The horses under his care may have been properly broken—the horses belonging to other people may not, and when the show begins if one horse begins playing the fool in all probability others will follow suit. There is a vast amount of ceremony attached to these parades. The Viceroy puts on all his war paint, throws out his chest, and rides down the lines of troops drawn up for his inspection, followed by his glittering staff, everybody feels it behoves them to polish buttons and do an extra brush up, even the Vice-reine’s coachman indulges in an extra shave and endures the middle button of his coat buttoned up, just until the ceremony is over.
Nobody takes the least notice of all these efforts to be extra smart; but perhaps it would be noticed if they did not, and nobody would perceive it more quickly than the Military Secretary.
After examining all the lines of troops drawn up for his inspection the Viceroy returns to the saluting point, and the Artillery let themselves go with ten rounds in the Imperial Salute followed with the much dreaded feu-de-joie, when so much dignity is often nolens volens cast to the wind. On one of these birthday parades I remember seeing the horse of a big official unship its rider and then after various gallopings caused much confusion by playing tunes with its heels on a big drum against which it seemed to bear some grudge, when he had finished with it, it drummed no more, at any rate for the time being; but to continue with the orthodox proceedings. After this fusillade follows the National Anthem with all the massed bands playing together, then the Artillery have another innings, until thirty-one guns have done their best.
In all probability the Viceroy knows little about troops, what they should look like, what they should do, or how many buttons make five on the men’s uniforms, but his Military Secretary will have primed him.
Everybody says it is a horrid bore, but they enjoy it all the same. I must not forget one of the most important features in the day’s show, namely, the final cheers for the Empress of India and the march past. The cheering proves as trying to the horses generally as the feu-de-joie.
We were trying to guess the number of people looking on, and asked Lord William what he considered would be somewhere near the figure, and he told us there were quite 100,000 on the Maidan, and it was not an unusual number on these occasions.
The year 1886 brought several annoyances and disappointments to the Military Secretary in connection with his racing. In the first place Metal failed to win him the Viceroy’s Cup, which he had counted on; Mr. Gasper, who has been already introduced to the reader, beating him with Mercury. Coveting this horse his lordship made an offer for him to Mr. Gasper, resulting in the grey Australian changing his stable and his owner for the sum of 10,000 rupees, which was considered cheap.
There was rather a tragic little episode at this meeting though it had nothing to do with Lord William. A smart little chestnut belonging to Mr. Abbott won The Trials in the shortest time on record and dropped dead immediately after passing the winning-post from rupture of the heart, poor little beast.
The first race Mercury ran for Lord William was for the Durbangah Cup, and he won; following it up with the Kooch Behar Cup, but in this race there was only one other horse against him, namely, Mr. Mullick’s Sir Greville. This was really a very funny race as evidently both jockeys had received orders to ride a waiting race, this they did with a vengeance, for when the flag fell neither of them hurried at all, but moved quietly along keeping boot to boot, both being determined to wait, this manœuvre continued, much to the amusement of the spectators until within half a mile from the winning-post, when both sat down to ride for all they were worth. Mercury won, but Mr. Mullick’s jockey pressed Dunn so closely into the rails that poor Mercury got rather badly cut.