Peshawur, April 14th 1860.
My Dear Dear Parents,
Once more, a line in health from this sickly station. This is, I think, about the worst place we have on all the plains of India—they may well call it the Valley of Death. There is a kind of fever here that brings the stoutest down to the brink of the grave in a very short time. Thank God, I have escaped it thus far. And again, unless we are well on the alert, we do not know when we may get up and find our throats cut, for no other crime than that we are “Feringhee sowars”—English pigs. We are surrounded by the scum of the earth—cringing cowards. They will not face our men, but as far as I can see, they take delight in murdering with the dagger, in the dark, any they can pounce upon; but a number of them have already met a traitor’s death. I find, by your last, that you are mistaken about Santa Topee. He was not a brother, or in any way related to that fiend of a Nana Sahib, but his right-hand man. He was a black-hearted monster of the deepest dye, but he has met a traitor’s death. Hanging was too good for him. To recount his bloodthirsty deeds to poor defenceless women and children, would make your blood run cold. If our laws would have permitted it, he ought to have been tried by a judge and jury of women, and I do not think he would have died in two minutes, for he was a wholesale murderer.
As for that blood-thirsty monster, Nana Sahib, he has thus far escaped the sword of justice. One million of money has been offered for him, dead or alive, by our Government; and as large as India is, if he is alive, he will have to keep very quiet. But the general opinion is that his form no longer disgraces this earth—that he has destroyed himself, or was killed in some of the encounters with our troops on the Nepaul frontier. He knew well that his doom was almost instant death, had he fallen into our hands. The Afghans have become wonderfully civil of late. They have found out that the “Feringhee ray”—English reign—is not all over out here, and that civility is much cheaper than shot, shell, cold steel, or a rope. As for a Native army, we must keep up one, or send out at least 50,000 more men, to hold this vast country. The old Bengal Native Army has been almost destroyed. There are a few regiments that have remained loyal, and the places of the others are filled up with Punjaubees and Afridis—inhabitants of the lower range of the Himalaya Mountains. One would almost pity some of the old mutineers that escaped the ravages of war. We have a number of them here. They tell us all sorts of tales as to what brought about the Mutiny. But, so far as I can find out, they were badly treated—buffeted and knocked about by their officers—and it was no use complaining. The fact is this, with at least thousands of them, it had been prophesied that we should hold the country for one hundred years, starting from Plassey (1757); that none could stand against us; then we should have to bow to them and eat the dust. But they have found the sons of Albion, side by side the heroic boys of Ireland, bad hands at eating humble-pie—that we are still the conquering race, and determined to hold what has been handed down to us. I find the country generally is settling down under the sceptre of Her Most Gracious Majesty. All those that have been faithful to us are now reaping their reward; and that will have a wonderful effect upon the Native mind. All through those dark, troublesome days, with treachery all around, there has been a silver line running. Some have proved faithful until death, although of the same creed and caste with the others; and while in the midst of the ranks of these blood-thirsty villains, have come out boldly, ranged themselves by our side, and fought desparately for us. These men are now reaping their reward. I have much pleasure in forwarding herewith our photos. You will find a corner for them in the album, I think. Hope you will like them. It’s not a good one of my better half, as her attention was upon the child. Must bring this to a close,
And believe me,
My dear Parents,
Your affectionate Son,
T. GOWING,
C.S.R.F.
P.S.—I enclose a letter from my rib; and from her long stocking she has desired me to forward you a nice little present of £——. This is the first from her, but if we are spared it will not be the last.
T. G.
Peshawur, October 26th, 1860.
My Dear, Dear Parents,