Towards the end of 1862 I left the Deccan on a pleasant visit to Sir William Denison, then Governor of Madras, and in February 1863, having served upwards of five years in India, was on the eve of embarkation for England when a telegram came from Sir Hugh Rose, Commander-in-Chief, inviting me to return to Bengal to become Adjutant-General of all the artillery in India. My plans were therefore entirely altered, and I embarked for Calcutta instead of England, and, after a long journey up to Meerut, joined Sir Hugh, and went with him to Simla in the Himalayas.
At this time great changes had become necessary in the army in India in consequence of the Mutiny of 1857, and of the subsequent discontent of the local European forces in 1859. In fact, the whole administration, both civil and military, was undergoing revision and reform. The direct assumption of the government of India by the Crown, and the disappearance of the old East India Company, though a beneficial change in itself, still naturally caused some confusion and revived old controversies. Hitherto there had been two armies in the country, serving side by side, with two separate staffs, with somewhat different sentiments, and not devoid of feelings of jealousy. The artillery were specially affected by the contemplated changes. Although in the early days of the East India Company a battery or two from England had occasionally served in India, still they were exceptions, and for many years each presidency had maintained a regiment of its own, partly English, partly native; and as we gradually conquered one province after another, they took part in many campaigns, performing distinguished services, and were deservedly held in high esteem. Therefore, when it became evident that unity of administration must be introduced as regards our military forces, and when, in the autumn of 1862, the three regiments of Indian artillery were incorporated with the Royal—losing, as it were, their separate individuality—it was only natural that the officers and men of all the four corps should have felt some regret at an arrangement which, however necessary it might be, was not in accord with old feelings and sentiments. All organised bodies may be said to be conservative, in so far that they dislike change.
The foregoing remarks may be sufficient to indicate the general conditions of the artillery problem when I was invited to become the chief staff officer, and to carry out the amalgamation. There were not only sentimental feelings and differences to be considered, but the systems of training, discipline, and even the matériel, were all to some extent different. Still, all these were comparatively minor and transient questions; and I fully recognised in the first place that whilst the batteries of old Royal Artillery would benefit by the wide experience of service in India—from which, previous to the Mutiny, they had been debarred—those of the local regiments would, on the other hand, benefit even more largely by periodical return to England, especially in these days of constant change and progress in the science of artillery. It was with these views that I entered on the somewhat difficult task of producing unity of system and of feeling in the hundred and four batteries which at that time were serving in India. Sir Hugh Rose, the Commander-in-Chief in India, and H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge, the head of the Army at home, were in full accord in these matters; and notwithstanding certain differences of opinion, I also received loyal support from the officers of artillery all over the country, so that in the course of 1863 all real difficulties gradually disappeared. My great desire was, as far as possible, to respect the interests of all, and to promote unity, not only as good in itself, but also as conducing to the efficiency of the regiment and to the advantage of the State. It was not altogether an easy task, but I was amply rewarded by the generous confidence of my brother officers. Reminiscences of the bygone system of the East India Company still, however, prevailed more or less in the councils of the Government of India, and nothing could be more difficult than the position of Sir Hugh Rose at that period of change; and it was a pleasure to me to serve under, and if possible to assist, so distinguished a soldier and one with whom I had been in frequent association during the Crimean war. Lord Elgin was at that time Viceroy, and I had one or two conversations with him regarding the alleged danger from the turbulent population of Hyderabad, and gave my opinion that these fears were exaggerated, and that, especially with a Prime Minister such as Salar Jung, there need be no real apprehension of an outbreak.
It is sometimes supposed that red tape is peculiar to official departments at home, but that is an error. There are large consignments of it sent to India, and I will give an instance. One day at Simla an old artillery officer called and requested me to give him a certificate of his being alive, as the audit office refused to give him his pay without it. He seemed to be well and lively, and I therefore complied at once; and as his visit was in August, dated it accordingly. On looking at it, he remarked: 'Ah, you have dated it August. That is of no use. I have already sent them one of that kind, but what they require is a certificate that I was alive in July.' This opened out a new aspect of the case, but, after consideration, I certified that to the best of my belief he was living the previous month. Whether he ever received his pay, I am not sure.
[CHAPTER XVII]
FRONTIER CAMPAIGN IN THE AFGHAN MOUNTAINS—ITS ORIGIN—POLITICAL AND MILITARY DIFFICULTIES
In the autumn of 1863 our somewhat tedious devotion to military administration in all its complicated details was suddenly interrupted by the outbreak of hostilities on the north-west frontier, which rapidly and unexpectedly developed into a war of considerable magnitude in the Afghan mountains. Its origin was of a rather singular and exceptional character. For many years previously a number of violent fanatical outlaws, chiefly from the lower provinces of Bengal, hundreds of miles away, had fled from our territories, and settled amongst the independent Afghan tribes who live in the countries across the border. These outlaws, occasionally reinforced by disaffected Mohammedans from the plains, lived chiefly in a village called 'Sitana' on the lower slopes of the Mahabun mountain, about forty miles north of the old Mogul fortress of Attock, and on the western side of the Indus—hence their name of Sitana fanatics. Their ordinary occupation consisted of incursions into the plains of Eusofzye, and in robbing and murdering peaceful traders in our territories. In 1858 the late Sir Sydney Cotton led an expedition against them and burnt some of their villages; but as they were harboured, and probably to some extent encouraged, by their Afghan neighbours, and as the country of their adoption was devoid of roads and almost inaccessible, they soon re-established themselves in the large new village of Mulka, high up on the slopes of the mountain, and re-commenced their depredations. It was under these circumstances that a fresh expedition was determined on; and as, from causes which were not foreseen at the outset, it rapidly developed into a considerable campaign, it will be interesting to take a short survey of the conditions, military and political, of our north-west border.
