Rejoining after short leave at the end of 1896, I became Commissioner of the Irrawaddy division, and after many years again saw Bassein and even Pantanaw. Seen in the light of larger experience, and from the melancholy mound of advancing years, Bassein seemed quite different from the gay station of our giddy youth. Really, it was much the same, and in some ways it had improved. I found many old friends among Burmans, officials, advocates, and traders. Every greybeard wagged his head and welcomed me as contemporary. Seriously, I was very glad to see these old gentlemen, and not to find myself forgotten. But I could not disguise from myself, perhaps not from others, that my heart was in Upper Burma; that I found the Delta folk, at least in the larger towns and villages, sophisticated and with too large a mingling of Kalas, and that I pined for Mandalay. The work was substantial but not overwhelming; there was still time for the judicial part of it. We were in Irrawaddy only for the dry months, and were able to make some pleasant tours. Conditions of travelling by water were vastly better than in early days. There was already one house-boat, which, towed by a launch, was an agreeable substitute for the rice-boat of our youth. The Commissioner had not yet a house-boat of his own, such as that enjoyed by the present pampered official; but on occasion we borrowed one from the friendly Deputy Commissioner of Maubin, Major Macnabb. In the northern part of the division travelling by land was easy in the dry weather. One exceedingly enjoyable tour in that part lives in my memory. We rode from Henzada to Ngathaing-gyaung traversing subdivisions held by two native officers, Maung Tin Gyaw and Maung Ba Bwa.
Much has been said and written about the corruption of Burmese officials. To hear some people, you would think there was no such rare bird, if indeed he be not fabulous, as an honest Burman in Government service. I am happy to say that my experience enables me to place on record a far more favourable judgment. It would be absurd to pretend that corruption did not exist, even that it was very unusual. It has been my fortune many times to recognize, expose, and punish corrupt officers. Both in Upper and in Lower Burma we inherited the traditions of a feeble Oriental Government, and it was impossible that evil practices should not abound. Township officers and their subordinates, all natives of the Province, exercised great power, often free from constant and close supervision. To the mass of the people, in their daily life, the township officer and Thugyi, even more than the Deputy Commissioner, represented the Government. Furthermore, in early days the native services were ill-paid and had poor prospects of advancement. Till an honourable tradition was established, it could not be expected that all would resist the many temptations in their path. Recognizing and admitting all these grounds of reserve, I am satisfied that very many Burmese officers have been perfectly honest and have faithfully justified the trust reposed in them. Men there are in whom I have such confidence that, were it shown to be misplaced, my faith in human nature would be shattered. In recent years the pay and prospects of Burmese officers have been improved (quorum pars exigua fui). They now have fair wages and many roads to dignity and honour. Partly for this reason, partly from higher motives, a sound tradition is gradually becoming crystallized, and year by year the standard of morality is being raised.
Of those[248] who, in comparatively early times, set a shining example of probity and efficiency, Maung Tin Gyaw was a fine specimen. Of good Talaing stock, he was one of the ablest native officers I have known. His father and uncle, whom a flippant but kindly, experienced, and appreciative Deputy Commissioner used to call Romulus and Remus, were Circle Thugyis, when I knew them venerable white-haired men of distinguished appearance. One of them bore honourable scars of wounds received in action in the troubles of 1885. Maung Tin Gyaw himself, then in the prime of life, was a man of courage, resolution, and independence. Well educated as a boy, but only in the vernacular, in adult life he had succeeded in teaching himself enough English to enable him to read the Gazette with moderate ease. With lighter English literature I fear he was unfamiliar. In his subdivision, which he managed admirably, he had boundless personal influence (awza), that intangible quality which makes the administrator. Throughout his career he preserved a reputation for spotless integrity and honesty. Riding with us through his charge, Maung Tin Gyaw was a very agreeable companion, prompt in all courteous attentions, always at hand when required, but never obtruding his society unsought.
At one of our halts he found a wandering monk who had caused some commotion elsewhere, and was regarded with suspicion as a potential cause of political trouble. As I have said before, the wandering monk, who gathers crowds, practises magic, and heals the sick by charms and incantations, is always distrusted by the district officer. When he begins to tattoo his followers, it is time to put him on security or send him to jail. This monk proposed to walk through the subdivision and proceed to Ngathaing-gyaung. Maung Tin Gyaw regarded this proposition with disfavour. He forbade the monk to go by land. “In fact,” said he, “that’s a very tedious and uncomfortable way. Go back to Henzada, where you will find a steamer which will take you far more quickly and easily.” “Please tell me,” replied the monk, who was of the order of sea-lawyers, “by what law you will prevent me from going by land.” “The law,” said Tin Gyaw, “I will show you in Henzada. But back you shall go.” And back he went under the friendly escort of a couple of constables, and so far as I know he gave no further trouble. No doubt a high-handed and illegal proceeding, but conducive to the peace of the district, and therefore explicitly approved by the Commissioner. Some years ago I had to mourn Tin Gyaw’s loss. Till his death he was one of my most trusted and valued friends. Maung Ba Bwa, our other companion on this tour, I am glad to say still serves the State. I am therefore precluded from saying more of him than that he, too, was an officer of distinction, who for some years managed an important subdivision never before, I think, placed in charge of a Burmese officer. That these subdivisions should be entrusted to native Extra Assistant Commissioners is an indication of the advance made in twenty years.
[CHAPTER XVI]
MANDALAY—THE BOUNDARY COMMISSION
Early in 1897 I was once more in Mandalay, well pleased to be again among my friends in Upper Burma. In the short period of my charge of the Mandalay Division occurred the inevitable rising for which the time was ripe. In Burma a small rebellion breaks out with almost seasonable regularity. One evening, as I was on the point of going to the Club, then sumptuously housed in the western halls of the Palace, Mr. (now Sir George) Scott came in. Instead of going to the Club, we drove round Mandalay Hill. It was October, and the festival which marks the end of Buddhist Lent was being celebrated. At the Kuthodaw[249] Pagoda we alighted and mingled with the crowd. Pwès were being played, and the scene was vivid with a gay and giddy throng of men, women, and children, decked with jewels and clad in rainbow-coloured silks. We met several friends, among them the Shwehlan Myowun, with whom Mr. Scott renewed an old acquaintance.[250] This was not the time of year when disturbance is expected. The October festival is one of peace and good-will, when the shadows of Lent have departed, when merry lights go sailing down the river, when the prospect of harvest is in sight. It is, moreover, a sure sign that no trouble is apprehended when women and children are seen in swarms at pwès and public assemblies. So with cheerful hearts we resumed our drive, while with unconscious irony I explained to Mr. Scott the profoundness of our security, our firm hold on Mandalay, my confidence that nothing untoward could happen without timely warning. We sat down to dinner, and got as far as coffee and cheroots. Sir George Scott still regrets that he never tasted that coffee. For at this moment in ran Mr. Snadden, the Superintendent of Police, saying: “There is an insurrection. You had better come and see about it.” When we arrived on the scene, the insurrection had been suppressed. A very agèd monk had announced himself as the coming King, the reincarnation of a Prince dead some centuries ago. He possessed the power of making his followers invisible and invulnerable, always an advantage, especially to a small force contending against superior numbers. Perhaps his forces would not be so small, for presently he would throw leaves into the air and they would come down as armed men. His occult power he proved by walking thrice round his monastery and disappearing from sight. “Of course,” said the Kinwun Mingyi, as he related the story afterwards, not wishing to impose upon my simplicity, “he hid himself somewhere.” With such old wives’ tales, and with promises of place and power, he beguiled a score of wretched dupes, mostly as old as himself. They sat and plotted beneath the humble mat-and-thatch monastery where the monk lived. My confidence that we should be warned in time was not misplaced. The local police inspector was told by a woman that a conspiracy was being hatched. The cry of “Wolf!” had been so often raised that he was mildly incredulous. When she led him to see the conspirators, and he found a lot of old men telling their beads, his unbelief was confirmed, and he declined to listen to the story. His want of faith cost him his appointment.
When the eventful evening came, armed only with swords and short spears hidden in the sleeves of their jackets, without a firearm of any kind, the little band marched to the taking of the walled city of Mandalay, garrisoned by two or three regiments. Their goal was the Palace where, said the monk, “when I take my seat on the throne, Burma will be my kingdom and the heretic kalas will flee.” Almost at the outset, they were diverted from their purpose. Crossing the moat by the South Bridge, they came upon a British soldier walking with an Englishwoman. “Behold the enemy; slay them,” cried the mad monk. Hotly pursued, the luckless pair ran through the South Gate.[251] I regret to say that the police guard at the gate fled. Close by, in a large compound, stood the house of Major W. H. Dobbie[252] of the Indian Army. The woman ran along the garden fence, while the man darted in and gave the alarm. Then this nameless hero, alone and unarmed, went back to help his companion and met death unafraid. The woman, grievously wounded, survived. With his revolver, and supplied with cartridges by his gallant wife, Major Dobbie ran out and met the rebels at his gate. Single-handed, he held them at bay, doing much execution, till some other officers, attracted by the firing, came to his aid and completed the rout. In the city gateway a running fight ensued. The white walls were splashed with blood which long remained a memorial of that stirring night. One officer received a cut on the head. Of the rebels, five, including the leader, were killed and most were wounded. If the band had pursued its original intention and made straight for the Palace, it would have come upon a few peaceful gentlemen sitting at dinner in the club with no weapons of defence handier than chairs and table-knives. The attempt was an isolated affair, of no political significance, confined to the few fanatics actually engaged. Patrols were sent out and rewards proclaimed. Within a week we picked up all the surviving rebels. After trial, ten were hanged in the presence of many spectators; the rest were sent to transportation. In the jail I spoke to one of the leaders, a man of fair position, somewhat past middle age, the Kappiya-taga[253] of the dead monk’s monastery. He explained that he had no enmity or cause of enmity against Government. Ambition was the motive which impelled him. He was to be the new King’s Chief Minister. The fortune of war being against him, he submitted to the penalty without complaint.