Upper Burma had long been the refuge of persons who had pressing reasons for leaving Lower Burma; in fact, as one departmental Report said, it was a “perfect Arcadia.” Not only thieves, robbers, dacoits, and murderers, but the bailiff who had lost at Komi the proceeds of Court sales, the Postmaster who was short in his collections, the clerk who had stolen witnesses’ subsistence money, all found an asylum across the border. Demands for extradition were made, but practically never with any effect. The Wun of Mingin was among many who felt it necessary to take measures for their security if, as seemed likely, Upper Burma came under British rule. Long years ago, this astute man had been Akunwun[85] of the rich district of Rangoon or Hanthawaddy. One morning, having packed on elephants the contents of the Treasury, some lakhs of rupees, he fled with his plunder across the frontier. There, with his wicked prize, he was a man of importance, obtained office, and in process of time was placed in charge of Mingin on the Chindwin River. Partly moved by humanity, for he was as kindly a man as ever scooped a Treasury, partly, I surmise, because he was shrewd enough to foresee the downfall of the Burmese Government, he protected the Bombay-Burma men who fell into his hands, saved them from ill-usage and death, and made them over to a small British force which early visited the Chindwin. The Wun’s humanity was suitably rewarded. His delinquency was condoned and he became a My̆o-ôk. Though he was believed always to be tainted with the corrupt habits of Upper Burma, he served us moderately well. The fact that he had saved the lives of our countrymen was never forgotten and would have covered many sins. Finally, he died in his bed, up to the day of his death in receipt of a pension from Government. I knew very well both him and his wife, who had accompanied him in his flight from Rangoon. Naturally, we did not in plain words discuss that incident. But reference to early days was sometimes made, and the old lady admitted that the Wun had been frivolous and light-hearted in his youth. When I knew him, he was grave and reverend. This is not the only instance in which persons guilty of past offences in Lower Burma purged their guilt by good service in troubled times and were received back into Government employ. I found it convenient to keep in mind their histories.
Another case of the cruel treatment of Europeans was the seizure of a Flotilla steamer at Moda, between Mandalay and Bhamo, and the imprisonment and ill-treatment of crew and officers. Daily was Captain Redman led out as if to execution. He, too, escaped by some friendly intervention, or the hesitation of his captors to proceed to the last extremity. He was, however, very badly used. The two local officers responsible for these barbarities were brought down to Mandalay, fined and imprisoned, and publicly whipped by the Chief Commissioner’s order.
[CHAPTER VIII]
EARLY DAYS AT MANDALAY
As speedily as possible, Mr. Bernard went up to Mandalay, leaving Lower Burma practically under the administration of the Secretary, Mr. Symes. He went up in the old R.I.M.S. Irrawaddy, embarking at Prome. With him were a few civil and police officers, destined with those who had accompanied the expedition to form the nucleus of the Civil Administration. Colonel T. Lowndes,[86] Inspector-General of Police, Captain C. H. E. Adamson,[87] of the Commission, Mr. G. M. S. Carter, and Mr. M. J. Chisholm, of the Police, were on board, and I had the luck to go as Junior Secretary. We landed at Minhla and inspected the fort, now garrisoned by Bengal Infantry, and the scene of the fight; at Myingyan, where we saw marks of our cannonade; at Pakôkku, where the Chief Commissioner was received by the My̆othugyi-gadaw,[88] a lady of large bulk, of high spirit, and of cheerful humour, who was administering the town and district in the name of her son. The old lady was extremely affable, and professed loyalty to the new Government. To the best of her ability, I believe she carried out her engagement. Her position was quite in accordance with the practice in Burma, where, as already stated, women take a prominent part in public affairs. She survived for some years, and was always our good friend.
On the 15th of December, 1885, Mr. Bernard arrived at Mandalay, and, with his staff, took up his quarters in the Palace where Sir Harry Prendergast and his officers were already installed. Mr. Bernard occupied a set of rooms behind the Eastern Audience Hall. Colonel Lowndes and I shook down in some good masonry buildings hard by, which had been used as waiting-rooms by the Ministers coming to transact business with the King. My abode was immediately under the wooden tower in the south-east corner of the palace, whence Queen Sūpăyá-lāt is said, the legend is apocryphal, to have viewed the march of the British force from the shore to the city. Behind me was the shed of the White Elephant, which had died a few days after the occupation, feeling, no doubt, that his use was at an end. Opposite, fronted by a pillared terrace, in the midst of which played a fountain, was a charming pavilion faced with white stucco, of modern design and construction, used by the King as a morning-room. Mr. Bernard adopted it for the same purpose. We were all most kindly made honorary members of the Headquarter Mess, established in spacious rooms adjacent to the Royal Theatre. There, with the chief military officers, we dined every night, and often played a quiet rubber. For breakfast and luncheon, during his stay in Mandalay, Mr. Bernard kept open house for his staff. Mr. Bernard’s breakfasts were refreshing interludes in the busy round of official work. Round that hospitable board often sat welcome guests, visitors of distinction, officers passing through Mandalay bringing a breath of the old world to our new heritage. From time to time every member of the Viceroy’s Council came to see the latest kingdom added to the Empire. Perhaps the visitor who made the deepest impression was Sir George Chesney, Military Member of Council, a man of wide culture and literary distinction, moving on a higher plane than the ordinary Indian official. (No offence to the ordinary official, honest man, whose stock of late years has unjustly depreciated.) Sir George Chesney seemed to have a wider range, a more extensive outlook; his premature death deprived the world of a statesman. In very early days came to Mandalay, as the Chief Commissioner’s guests, some charming Americans, among them a lady of exceptional grace and beauty. Warned by secretaries and aides-de-camp that she could not possibly go to Mandalay, where conditions of war still obtained, she is said to have gone pouting to the great Lord Sahib, by whom she was assured that she should certainly go, and that her path should be strewn with roses. ’Twere churlish not to believe this pretty story. My impression is that the men of the party tried to buy the Palace as it stood, and succeeded in acquiring a gilded sentry-box. I may wrong them.
Most strange and almost incredible it seemed to range at will the halls and corridors, where hardly a fortnight before the Lord of many White Elephants had kept his State. The Palace was in exactly the same condition as when occupied by the Burmese Court. As a Burman official said, in another place, the scene was the same, the actors only were changed. Barbarous Byzantine mirrors of colossal size still lined the walls; a motley heap of modern toys, French clocks and fans, mechanical singing birds, and the like, mingled with lovely specimens of Burmese carving, gold and silver and lacquered trays and boxes, forming a heterogeneous collection characteristic of degenerate taste. Rooms so lately tenanted by King, Queens, and their butterfly attendants, aglow with light and colour, were now occupied as sober offices and quarters. Khaki uniforms, boots, and the ringing of spurs replaced gay pasos and tameins and soft pattering of naked feet. The Palace, it must be confessed, was a mass of somewhat tawdry buildings, mostly of wood and of no great antiquity, desecrated by corrugated iron roofs, yet of interest as a unique specimen of Burmese domestic architecture. Perhaps the most striking features were the great halls of audience, supported by mighty pillars of teak, red and golden, the several Royal thrones often described, and the Py̆athat, the graceful terraced spire surmounting the eastern throne-room, which travellers have been taught to call the Centre of the Universe. The title was invented by an enterprising journalist, but will, no doubt, always be cited as a mark of Burmese arrogance. Besides the rooms reserved for the King, then occupied by Sir Harry Prendergast, the Palace afforded accommodation for the Queens and for Ambassadors, attendants, pages, maids of honour, and the usual entourage of an Eastern Court. For some years the Palace continued to be inhabited. The King’s audience-hall was used as a church; the corresponding hall on the west, the Queen’s, as a club house. A few of the buildings on the Palace platform were of masonry work, built for the King by some of the foreigners who swarmed at the Burmese Court. Like the famous A-tu-ma-shi[89] monastery, these made no pretence of being in Burmese style, and were grievous to the æsthetic eye. In the Palace enclosure was the Council Chamber where the Hlutdaw[90] deliberated. Opposite was a model of the Kyaung,[91] where King Thebaw spent his novitiate. This also was for some time used as a church. All round the Palace were charming gardens, intersected by watercourses, with many a grotto and pavilion, where gay young Princes and Princesses, pages and maids of honour, idled away the pleasant hours. Girdling and protecting the Palace and its precincts was an inner wall of masonry, and round this again a palisade of stout teak logs. The main gates of the palace corresponded with those of the city. Just within the eastern gate stood a white tower, the Bohozin, whereon was a mighty drum, the Bohozi, struck by hereditary beaters to record the hour and to assure the world that the King was in his palace. After the occupation, the beaters fled. We were gravely warned that the silence of the Bohozi would be interpreted as a sign that anarchy prevailed and that there was no Government. The beaters were sought out and reinstated. As soon as the periodical sound of the drum was heard once more, we were solemnly advised that this would never do. The beating of the Bohozi indicated that the Burmese Government still existed, and that we were merely temporary sojourners. So the beaters were retired on suitable terms, and the Bohozi was sent to the Phayre Museum. I need hardly say that it did not matter a brass farthing whether the drum was beaten or not.
The Palace stood in the middle of what we came to call the city. Built on somewhat high ground about three miles from the shore, the city (myo) was a perfect square, surrounded by a rampart of earth, battlemented walls, and a moat on which water-lilies floated in lovely profusion. Each face of the walls measured one mile and a quarter. Between the walls and the moat was a stretch of turf, as if expressly provided for a morning gallop, but somewhat spoilt by sudden holes. Five great gates, two on the west, one on each other side, opened through the wall, each approached by a bridge over the moat. At every gate was a red wooden pillar, with an inscription recording the date and circumstances of its erection. Stories, which we need not believe, are told of the burial of living victims beneath these pillars. Within the city walls, all round the palace, the space was closely packed with Burmese houses. Here were the dwellings of Ministers and other high officers, each surrounded by an ample compound (win) where lived a whole village of relations and retainers. Here also were the humbler dwellings of minor officials, soldiers, and the miscellaneous rabble collected about an Eastern Court.
Now all is changed. The Palace remains a melancholy memento of Burmese sovereignty. The halls are tenantless, and the footstep of the infrequent visitor rings hollow on its floors. A fragment of the teak stockade is preserved. The rest is replaced by a neat post and rail fence. All the native houses have disappeared. The space within the walls is occupied by barracks, mess-houses, dwellings, polo-ground, and the like. The last Burmese house, now removed, was that of the Kinwun Mingyi.