OUR ENCAMPMENT IN NISHAT BAGH.

WITH
THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS
IN
QUARTERS, CAMP, AND ON LEAVE.

BY
GENERAL E. H. MAXWELL, C.B.,
AUTHOR OF “GRIFFIN AHOY!”

LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1883.

All Rights reserved.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.
THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS.

MY FIRST EXPERIENCES IN THE REGIMENT—TOBY WHITE—THE CASTLE GUARD—CHANGES IN IRELAND—DONNYBROOK FAIR—HALF-A-CROWN’S WORTH OF FIGHTING—ORDERED TO MALTA—AFFAIRS IN SYRIA—IRISHMEN AND SCOTCHMEN—TRANSPORTS—A CRUEL JOKE—AMUSEMENTS AT MALTA—CRUISE TO CANDIA AND GREECE—AN OLD COLONEL’S OPINION OF ROME AND ITS RUINS—DEPOT AT PAISLEY—FIRING A SALUTE AT DUMBARTON CASTLE—MARCH FROM STIRLING TO ABERDEEN—ILLUSTRIOUS TOM AND THE BLOTTING BOOKS—REMINISCENCES.

CHAPTER I.

In the year 1839 I entered the Army as ensign in the 88th Regiment Connaught Rangers, which was then quartered in Dublin; and a merry life it was. What with drill and parties, hunting and field-days, the officers of the old regiment were always occupied. There were several packs of hounds within easy distance of Richmond Barracks; but the Ward Union was the one most patronised by my brothers-in-arms. The manœuvres in the Phœnix Park were not much varied. I remember one day, when, my captain being absent, I was in command of the company in which I was ensign. The old colour-sergeant took the greatest care of me. We advanced in line, and so sure was the non-commissioned officer of what the manœuvre would be that he whispered to me: ‘When ye get to that black thing on the ground, ye must give the words, “Form fours to the right; right wheel;”’ which, I think, was the form in those days. The black thing was a crow, which flew away before we got up to it. But, by my friend the colour-sergeant’s help, I gave the proper word, and we retired in time to let the cavalry through. Week after week passed, and the same manœuvres were executed.

Old Toby White was town-major then, and his portrait, often repeated, appeared on the walls of the Castle Guard. I always tried to be sub. on the Castle Guard, for it was a pleasant lounge during the day, and in the evening a good dinner was served free of expense, while at night a supper of grilled bones, etc., was always ready for those who had been at the theatre, and who looked in on their way home.

Everything is changed in Ireland now-a-days. The spirit of fun seems to have vanished, and a sombre gloom appears to overshadow everything. There was always a comical side to all the proceedings of our Irish friends, even when the affair was serious, or assumed an air of importance.

I remember going to Donnybrook fair—now a thing of the past—with two brother officers, Bayley and Dawson. When we arrived all was quite decorous. We observed many tents, in which the country people were apparently enjoying themselves peaceably, but, unfortunately, an urchin—a Dublin street Arab—came up to us, and said, ‘Give me half-a-crown, captin, and I’ll show ye the finest sport ye ever saw.’ So we tossed him the money, and off he went. He crept up near a tent, where we saw him ‘feeling for a head,’ and, having found one ‘convanient’ belonging to some man inside, perhaps asleep, he took the stick in his hand, and hit the head as hard as he could. The effect was wonderful. All started up with such vehemence that the tent came down at once, and everyone began to fight with his neighbour. The clatter of sticks was incessant, and the uproar soon extended to the whole fair. Then the peelers rushed in, and were swayed from one side to the other by the contending parties. We left the scene of battle while the strife was still raging,—many a cracked crown being the consequence of that miserable half-crown.

After being quartered for some time in Dublin, we were ordered to Cork, there to await embarkation to Malta. In the year 1840, affairs in Syria looked very warlike, and we fully expected to be ordered on to the seat of war, but the bombardment of St. Jean D’Acre by our Fleet, under Sir R. Stopford, together with the other successful operations, put off for some years a great war.

The 42nd Royal Highlanders were quartered at Cork when we were there, and a great friendship existed between the two regiments. The consumption of whiskey—to cement this friendly feeling—among the men of the two corps was enormous. Sometimes a Highlander and a Connaught Ranger might be seen climbing the steep hill on whose summit the infantry barracks are situated; both having proved the genuineness of their friendship by deep potations, and both in their way showing various indications of their respective nationalities. Sandy appeared quiet, grave, and canny, while Paddy was excited and noisy; waving a stick in the air, and challenging everyone to ‘tread on the tail of his coat.’

When they arrived at the barrack-gate, the Scotchman pulled himself together, and, solemnly fixing his eyes on a distant point, marched steadily past the sentry to his barrack-room, while the Irishman, howling defiance to all about him, staggered right into the middle of the guard and was lodged most probably in a cell for the night.

At length the transport Conway was reported to be ready to receive the head-quarters of the Connaught Rangers, and we went on board. Very different from what they are now were the vessels employed for the conveyance of troops; the comfort and luxury of floating palaces like the Crocodile and the Jumna were then unknown, and a ship that was considered almost unsafe to convey merchandise was regarded as quite good enough to carry one of Her Majesty’s regiments.

A curious scene the deck of our old East India-man presented when we got on board. Confusion seemed the order of the day; geese, ducks, and fowls filling the air with their peculiar cries. It was difficult to get along the decks, so crowded were they with friends of the soldiers, consisting of weeping women and disconsolate children.

Somehow or other every stranger was cleared out in the course of time, and we put to sea. We had a very rough time of it in the Bay of Biscay, for it blew a fierce gale from the S.W., and not only could we make no way against the storm, but we were driven quite out of our course. These discomforts were not much thought of by my young brothers-in-arms, but must have been trying to the older officers on board. One veteran attached to our regiment passed a fearful time. He had never been to sea before, having served always in a cavalry corps, and the extent of his voyages had been from England to Ireland and back again; he was an old man now, and he and his wife had a very miserable appearance. Whenever he came into the cabin he looked the picture of woe, but I fear he got no sympathy from us youngsters. Once when the storm was at its worst, and the waves broke clean over the ship, the green water washing in at the cuddy door, ‘Oh!’ exclaimed the poor old man, ‘why do we not go into a harbour? Can we not get a steamer to tow us in?’ This proved an unfortunate remark to make in the presence of a lot of careless young jokers.

‘A first-rate idea,’ said one of them. ‘Let us get up a subscription for a steamer to pull us out of this tre-men-duous sea.’ No sooner said than done. We got a sheet of paper and wrote the following heading: ‘It is proposed to get a steamer to tow us out of the Bay of Biscay. Officers wishing to subscribe towards a fund to pay the expense of the said steamer are requested to sign their names.’ We all wrote down the amount we were willing to give, some putting down five pounds, others two pounds; but the poor old man, who was considered by us to be rather fond of his money, surprised us all by putting down his name for twenty pounds. The paper was stuck up in the cabin, but the old captain of the transport baffled our project, and let the cat out of the bag by asking the ancient warrior, ‘How the dickens are ye to get at the steamer?’ I do not think we were ever forgiven for our rather cruel joke.

On our arrival at Malta we were hospitably entertained by the regiments quartered there. The season was a very gay one, as our magnificent sailing fleet almost filled the many harbours, and dinners and balls, regattas and races, became the order of the day. The race-course was a very primitive affair, being a hard road called Pieta; but great was the excitement of these sporting events when the ‘Wandering Boy,’ belonging to Captain Horsford of the Rifle Brigade, won the Ladies’ Whip, and Major Shirley’s (88th regiment) ‘Monops’ came in first for some other favourite stakes.

I shall pass over the three years I belonged to the Malta garrison, during which time I went a cruise to Candia and Greece. The late Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Houston Stewart, was then captain of the Benbow, in which I went as guest of the present Admiral Sir John Hay, then a mate. A more delightful time no man ever had, for the Benbow was celebrated for its hospitality, and all the officers were kindness itself. To recall these pleasant hours is the most agreeable exercise of an old soldier’s memory, but the old ship is now a hulk. Her captain rests in his honoured grave, and the jolly young Benbows of that merry time have become admirals and captains, and are all scattered to the four winds. I had often intended visiting Naples and Rome, but somehow the journey never came off, the remarks made by an old colonel having probably had some effect in preventing me from undertaking the journey. When he was asked if he enjoyed his visit to Rome, he always got very angry, an anger which increased to fury if one mentioned any of the ruins. ‘Ah, bah!’ he would exclaim, ‘the Colay-sayem, is it?—the greatest absurdity that ever stepped—just a parcel of ould stones!’

In 1843 I left Malta, and, after a few months’ leave, I was ordered to join the dépôt of the 88th, quartered at Paisley. The dépôt of a regiment in those days was a miniature battalion, consisting of four companies, under command of a major. We were particularly fortunate in our commanding officer, who always was kind and considerate to everyone. We also had a good band—a privilege which a dépôt was allowed to enjoy at that time.

Very soon after joining at Paisley, I was sent on detachment to Dumbarton Castle. My party consisted of a sergeant, a corporal, and twenty men. When at Paisley, I was provided with a servant—a stately old soldier named Thomas Pillsworth, but better known afterwards as ‘Illustrious Tom.’ His wife, one of the fattest women I ever saw, became my housekeeper at Dumbarton. The rock of Dumbarton is a lonely spot, and to a young fellow of twenty-one was regular banishment. For a day or two I sat on the top of the rock and moaned over my sad fate, but very soon all became changed, for I was most kindly received by the families in the county, and I look back to the period of my being quartered in Dumbarton Castle as a most agreeable reminiscence. When I was there, I was known as ‘the governor of the castle.’ My command consisted of a master gunner, six old artillerymen, and my detachment. The castle was armed with seven guns.

The Queen’s birthday was announced in general orders, and, as usual, the notice was given that every fort in Scotland should fire a salute of twenty-one guns. There existed among the papers in the office a memorandum from the Adjutant-General in Scotland that the guns at Dumbarton Castle were not to be fired, but on this occasion the said document could not be found, so I sent for the old master gunner, who informed me that the guns had not been used since the death of His Majesty George IV. But I overcame his scruples by writing an order that a royal salute was to be fired next day. The six patriarchal artillerymen were full of zeal, and we managed in this wise: The detachment of Connaught Rangers was formed up on the top of the rock; the seven old guns were first fired by the ancient gunners, and then my men fired a feu-de-joie. This gave time for the venerable artillerymen to load again, and to repeat the fire, an operation which I am thankful to say was effected without any accident, till the twenty-one rounds had been expended.

After giving three hearty cheers for Her Majesty, I dismissed my men to their dinners, and the ancient warriors marched off to their quarters very pleased with their performance. But the authorities did not approve of our loyalty; for I received a reprimand, and an order to pay for the powder expended. Colonel Thorndike, R.A., (late General Thorndike) came to my assistance in this dilemma, and, through his influence, I think I was not called upon to pay anything. As, fortunately, I had blown up nobody, I did not grieve much over the official blowing up, as it was earned in a good cause—loyalty to Her Majesty the Queen.

As the dépôt of the 88th were ordered to proceed from Paisley to Aberdeen, I ceased to be Governor of Dumbarton Castle. We went by train to Stirling, and began there a most enjoyable march. We were received everywhere with open arms, no troops having been along that road since the time of the Peninsular War. The men were not allowed to pay a penny at their billets, and the officers were most kindly welcomed by the hospitable families on whom they were quartered. It was amusing to hear the men giving an account of their adventures as we marched from one place to another.

One day I heard two of them remarking on the fate of a sergeant who had been reduced to the ranks for drunkenness.

‘It’s sorry I am for Sergeant —— to be broke by court-martial,’ said one.

‘Bedad,’ replied the other, ‘serve him right. He thought he could get drunk, like an officer!’

Aberdeen in the year 1844 was a most charming quarter. There was no railway at that period to carry people away to London, or even Edinburgh, and many of the county families came in for the balls at the Assembly Rooms, and were very kind in asking the officers of the 88th to stay in their houses in the county. One of my brother officers had a servant named Casey, who had been quartered at Corfu with the regiment, and was able to play the guitar, and sing Italian airs, the words of which could scarcely be said to belong to any particular language. There was a good theatre at Aberdeen, and Casey was asked to sing between the acts of some play that was having a run. The whole town was placarded with notices that ‘a distinguished amateur would sing the “Prayer in Norma.”’ We officers were greatly interested in this event, and all of us gave Casey different articles of dress, so that he might appear in proper form before the Aberdeen audience. The curtain drew up, and our hero came forward, and sang very well; but, alas, some one had given him whisky before going on the stage, a beverage which naturally took effect on his Irish nature, and instead of retiring gracefully after the conclusion of his song, to our intense disgust, he gave a sort of a screech, and began to dance an Irish jig with the greatest energy. The effect was wonderful, and the gods were delighted. At length the curtain fell, but the noise behind it intimated only too plainly that poor Casey was being taken off to the guard-room, where he passed the night in his borrowed plumes.

I had returned on one occasion to the barracks after a tour of visits in the county to many most agreeable houses. Rather dejected, I was watching Illustrious Tom unpacking my portmanteau. At first I did not take much notice, but very soon my attention was drawn to my servant’s performances. First he placed a blotting-book on the table, then he took out another from my portmanteau, and put it on my chest of drawers, and then he placed another somewhere else, and so on, till at last he could find no more vacant resting-places, and he stood in the middle of the room, bearing some resemblance to a sapient owl, with a blotting-book held in his claws.

‘What are you doing, Tom, with all these blotting-books?’ I at length exclaimed.

‘Sure,’ said the Illustrious, ‘I thought ye would be plased. I tuck the different books from the bed-rooms in which yer honour slept. They look well here, and they’ll nivir miss them there.’

As I received his intimation with shouts of laughter and volleys of abuse, Tom drew himself up to attention, faced about, and marched out of my room. My time was fully occupied for several days in finding out to whom the different blotting-books belonged.

A sudden order came for us to leave Scotland and proceed to Ireland. We embarked at Aberdeen in a steamer, and, after a good passage, arrived at Granton, where we landed, and marched through Edinburgh, and thence by train to Glasgow, in which town we were delayed a few days, and then we were taken over to Ireland. While in Glasgow we were made honorary members of the 92nd Highlanders’ mess, and at the end of our stay, when we asked for our bills, were told that we were the guests of the regiment.

What a pleasant reminiscence is that of Irish quarters in old times! Everyone was kind and hospitable to the officers of the Army, from the squire in his ancient castle, to the squireen in his more modest house, the property of the latter being often so limited in extent that you could sit on the lodge gate and kick the front door open. We were welcome even to the dwellers in cottages, who, when I entered their lowly cabins, would shout, ‘Come in, captin; ye’re welcome, sorr;’ and, if I did stumble over something in the dark, what did it matter when I was re-assured by the voice of my host saying, ‘Niver mind, yer honor, it’s only a schlip of a pig?’ and truly the repeated grunt, grunt, which followed showed that I had disturbed somewhat unceremoniously the slumbers of that valuable animal, which was fed on the lavings, and, when fattened up, ‘sowld to pay the rint.’ Then the ‘quality’ were always glad to welcome a young, merry officer, and in the evening one of the ‘boys,’ who could ‘play the fiddle first-rate,’ was called in to show his talent, and dance after dance made the night seem too short. What a pleasant time to look back to! Poor old Ireland, with its fearful murders of men and women, and slaying of hounds and cattle, is wofully changed, and I fear the officers of regiments quartered there now do not receive such kindness as I did from high and low. I suppose there was something in the air in those days that made us all so light-hearted, for not a day passed that there was not some fun, and most of the venturesome acts in which we indulged were done for the pure love of sport.

One evening, at Birr, a match, a sort of steeple-chase, was made between two of my brother officers. The night was pitch-dark, and they were to be mounted on their own horses, and to be led into a field about half a mile from the barracks. They were to get over the wall as well as they could, and the first of them who arrived mounted at the mess-room door was to be the winner. They got on their nags and were taken off to the starting-post, where they were invisible to us. We could only hear the word ‘Off!’ given by the starter. The difficulty was to get over the wall in the dark. One of the riders had a servant, a private in the Rangers, who, of course, was delighted with the sport. We were astounded to hear the voice of this man exclaiming, ‘Ride at me, Mr. John, ride at me, sorr!’ and all of a sudden a flash burst forth for a moment, and ‘Mr. John’ made for the light, got over the fence, and rode in triumphant as winner. Pat Casey, his servant, having made a ‘slap in the wall,’ had then cleverly lit a whole box of lucifers at the place, and thereby enabled his master to get out of the field and come in conqueror.

CHAPTER II.
IN THE WEST INDIES.

TRALEE—A VENTURESOME FEAT—OLD PATE—AN IRISH CORNET—PADDY OYSTERS—ORDERED TO BARBADOES—GRENADA—CAPTAIN ASTLEY’S CREOLE—ST. GEORGES—LAND-CRAB CATCHING—TURTLE TURNING—A JIGGER TOE—RECOLLECTIONS OF TRINIDAD—HALIFAX, NOVA SCOTIA—BURNING OF THE BARRACKS—LOBSTER-SPEARING—PRESENT OF A BEAR—SMUGGLING BRUIN ON BOARD—OUR PET IN THE ZOO.

CHAPTER II.

We were quartered for some time at Tralee, a place I shall ever remember with the kindliest feelings for its inhabitants, whose great hospitality was only equalled by their love of good honest sport. On one occasion, when the seniors of the mess were not present, a deal of good-natured chaff had gone on after dinner in the mess-room, where some of the members of the Chute hounds had assembled as guests.

The subject on the tapis was the capabilities of a mare I possessed, which I considered one of the best fencers I ever saw. If you hurried her at her fences she was sure to give you a fall, but leave her alone and nothing in the shape of high banks, for which the country round Tralee was famous, would stop her. The chaff went on, and at length I said,

‘I am quite sure the mare would jump this table if asked to do so.’

As many voices proclaimed the impossibility of such a feat, I desired the mess-waiter to tell my groom to saddle the mare and bring her into the mess-room. In a short time the noise of her feet was heard, and as soon as she entered the room, Bayley, a brother officer, jumped up and vaulted on her back. I copy the following narrative from the New Sporting Magazine, 1850, page 353.

‘Dining at the mess of the “Indomitable Rangers” on the evening of the very last run, I there witnessed an exploit performed which I believe has never been equalled, and I do think never will be excelled. The cloth having been drawn, social converse replaced the cool formality, which is, by some mischance or other, almost the invariable attendant upon dinner-parties; and as might be expected amongst a party where all were sportsmen, and on the evening of a hunting day when a good fox had shown much sport, the topic chosen was the various particulars of the run, and the mode in which each hunter had done its work.

‘“I saw you kiss your mother earth twice, Maxwell,” remarked a brother officer; “believe me, that mare of yours is not just the thing,” and here from all sides followed many good-humoured criticisms upon the jumping qualities of my friend’s prad, to which he (highly delighted at having such an opportunity afforded him “for a lark,”) lustily protested the mare should practically reply by then and there popping over the mess-table. The groom being immediately summoned, received in silence, and, as may be imagined, with staring amazement, his master’s order “to saddle the mare and bring her in.” Many of those present tried to stay the proceedings, but it was now too late; a wilful man, strong in the justice of his cause, would have his way, and in came them mare accordingly, much to the consternation of the company assembled, who heard her tramp, tramp, up the boarded passage, knocking out of it the sound of at least a troop of heavy horse.

‘Mounted by Mr. Bayley, amidst the glare of wax lights and a blazing coal fire, she actually jumped across the mess-table (a good four feet and a half) without laying an iron on it, and, landing safe on the other side, stood gentle and quiet as a lamb upon the floor, under which (as though to increase the hazard of the deed) lay a wine-cellar of from ten to twelve feet deep.’

I remember with great satisfaction that there was not a single bet on the event, and that the mare acquitted herself in the most gallant way, shaking her head and clearing her nostrils, quite pleased after having done what was required of her in the well-lighted mess-room.

The quotation from the Sporting Magazine was written and signed by one who, besides being the most pleasant of companions, was a first-rate sportsman. If ‘Old Pate’ should happen to read these stories of a time long past, I am sure he will recall with pleasure the days gone by.

There was a distinguished cavalry regiment quartered in Ireland during the time our dépôt was wandering about the country. A young cornet joined, who, I believe, was a very good fellow, but so very Irish that his brother officers would not allow him to go out to any parties in the county. Mrs. ——, a very clever woman, was the wife of a gentleman who was proprietor of a large estate near the town where our hero’s regiment was stationed. Having previously met the young dragoon, and being delighted with his Milesian remarks, she sent him a pressing invitation to a picnic which she intended giving. After a great deal of trouble he received permission to go, but on the sole condition that he was not to speak a single word the whole time he was there. So off he started, bound by his promise to act the mute.

The scene of the picnic was near a lake, and Mrs. —— managed that the young soldier should accompany a very pretty and amusing girl for a walk before luncheon. Having been told by her hostess that Mr. —— was a most agreeable Irishman, she was very much surprised that, in answer to all her remarks, he only said, ‘Ho, ha!’ the monotony of which reply terribly bored her. As they came near the lake, however, and were turning a corner, a great swan flew along the water with such a startling noise that it took our poor cornet by surprise, and, forgetting that he was to act the mute, he exclaimed, ‘Holy Biddy, look at the goose!’ I believe he was never allowed to go to any parties again.

In by-gone days valuable horses were often picked up in unexpected ways. My father, who was a captain in the 23rd Dragoons when only sixteen years old, was a wonderfully good judge of a horse. Once, when quartered in Ireland, he saw a man seated on a kish of oysters on the back of a good-looking animal.

‘Paddy, will ye sell your horse?’ exclaimed my father.

‘Bedad I will,’ was the reply.

‘How much will ye take?’ was the next question.

After scratching his head for some time, the man mentioned a price, which my father agreed to give him. The bargain seemed to be coming to an end, when the Irishman said,

‘Och, tear-an-ages, I forgot the oysters!’ which difficulty was met by the would-be purchaser declaring,

‘I’ll buy you, your horse, and your oysters.’

Whether the man was kept I do not know, but the horse and the oysters became my father’s property, and most probably a merry supper-party disposed of the latter to commemorate the event. The new purchase was named ‘Paddy Oysters,’ and an acquisition he proved, for he won several plates in Ireland, and was well known everywhere. My father became major of the 23rd Dragoons, and then raised a battalion of the Cameronians, 26th Regiment, hoping to get the lieutenant-colonelcy of a cavalry regiment, as he had always served in that branch of the service; but the Duke of York told him he must command the corps he had raised, a high honour to him, and he went out to Spain as lieutenant-colonel of the 26th Cameronians, which formed part of the force under Sir John Moore, a personal friend of his own. So my father went to the wars, and took Paddy Oysters as his charger. At the battle of Corunna his left arm was shattered by a cannon ball, and he was hurried off on board a transport, where the wounded limb was taken out at the socket. Alas! poor Paddy Oysters! The order was given that all horses were to be shot to prevent them falling into the hands of the French; so the gallant charger was condemned to die. The colonel’s groom would allow no one to touch his master’s faithful steed. Although the enemy was approaching, and no doubt there was a good deal of hurry and excitement, he waited for orders, which were given, and Paddy Oysters fell dead on the beach. These particulars were given me by my father as well as by my uncle, who was present at the time.

A soldier’s life is one of continual change. I suppose, among its many charms, that of uncertainty is one of the greatest. We were quartered at Tralee, and in the full enjoyment of all the sport and hospitality which are the distinguishing features of that most charming quarter. I well remember one evening; we had had a first-rate run with the Chute fox-hounds, and it was late before I got back to my quarters. My room looked very comfortable, Illustrious Tom having made a fine fire of turf and coal mixed. Everything seemed so pleasant, and I daresay the thought entered my mind what a jolly season was before me. There were some letters on the table. One official-looking document I left to the last, believing it referred to some court-martial duty. However, at length I opened it and found a note from my commanding officer, regretting that he was obliged to forward the enclosed to me; which was an order from the Horse Guards for Captain Maxwell to proceed to join the head-quarters of the 88th Connaught Rangers at Barbadoes, West Indies. So my Irish campaign was over, and I had to say farewell to Tralee and all its charms, and to leave behind me not only my brothers-in-arms, but, among other treasures, Illustrious Tom and his fat wife.

The steamer started from Southampton. We touched at Madeira, and, after a prosperous passage, cast anchor at Barbadoes.

The head-quarters of the Connaught Rangers were ordered to Trinidad, four companies under my command to the Island of Grenada, and another detachment under Captain Bayley to St. Vincent. The 88th had suffered fearfully from that awful disease, yellow fever. Our much beloved Colonel Ormsby Phibbs had fallen a victim to it, and many men had lost their lives. Yellow Jack left us the moment we sailed from Barbadoes, and during the two years I was quartered at Grenada we had no hospital to speak of, and only one man died, a poor man who fell a victim to new rum. We got up a race meeting, open to all the islands in the West Indies. Captain Astley, 66th Regiment, brought a horse down from Barbadoes named Creole, and won everything with it. He was a very nice fellow, and we were all glad at his success, as it showed much sporting spirit to bring a horse to run at such a distance from where his regiment was quartered. The stakes he had won were all in dollars, and the bag he had to carry away was so large that Captain Astley asked me, as secretary and treasurer, to have the money sent to him through the Colonial Bank at Grenada. We said farewell to this gallant officer on board the steamer which was to take him back to Barbadoes. He was in great spirits, and apparently in excellent health. But, alas! the return steamer from Barbadoes, in a very few days, brought a letter from the paymaster of the 66th Regiment, telling the sad story that Astley was dead; yellow fever having carried him off.

Among the fair places of the earth there is none fairer than the Island of Grenada. The Carenage and town of St. Georges are situated at the foot of high hills covered with trees. The road winds up a green avenue, and gradually ascends to Fort Mathew, where four companies of the Rangers were quartered. What a view there was from the verandah of my rooms! The town of St. Georges appeared to consist of toy buildings, half encircling the harbour, and, far beyond, miles and miles of sea. In the day time everything was bright and lively: the balmy trade winds blew fresh and perfumed; the night, when every tree and bush was lit up by sparkling fireflies, appeared calm and peaceful; rare flowers seemed to grow uncared for—flowers which at home would have been highly valued and carefully tended. Fruit is plentiful, and pine-apples are very fine; a brilliant purple blossom, resembling the single bell of the hyacinth, opens from each of the diamond-shaped divisions of the fruit itself, which when young is of the same rich hue, surrounded by a crest of pink-corded leaves, and protected all round by others much larger and broader, with saw-like edges and spiked points. The pine-apple, as it ripens, loses its beautiful and fresh appearance; the purple changes to pale strawberry, and the leaves become green. It is placed in ice, and sliced; and there cannot be anything more delicious than this juicy fruit when the sun is high and the trade wind has failed.

It would take pages to describe the various dishes a gourmet might revel in at Grenada; turtle in every way, pepper-pot, and land-crabs. I can only recommend those who have large yachts to go to the West Indies for a cruise. Land-crab catching was a very picturesque scene. These creatures, which live in holes near the sea, are strangely ugly. At night we used to sally forth, attended by crowds of niggers, and proceed to an inlet from the sea, on the shore of which the manchineel-trees grow. If you take refuge from the rain underneath the shade of these treacherous shrubs, your face and hands become blistered all over. The ground is full of holes where the land-crabs dwell. Fascinated by the torch-light (which each native carries), they come out, and are seized by the expert watcher. These crabs are supposed to be foul feeders, and when caught they are placed in barrels, and fed on meal for many days before they are cooked for the table. Another exciting sport was turtle turning. The natives would watch a turtle coming out of the water to lay her eggs, and, before she got back to the sea, would intercept her, and turn her over on her back, in which position a turtle is quite helpless. Having marked the spot where the eggs were deposited, they went there, and generally found an enormous quantity. These eggs when boiled have a skin like parchment. One becomes in time quite clever at opening them. The way a West Indian gourmet eats them was always a wonder to me, though I became pretty expert at it after some practice.

My brother officer, Lee Steere, and myself were greatly interested in the race-meeting before mentioned. Both of us had horses to run, and we had to train them ourselves; so we discovered an old house near the race-course—which we called Jockey Lodge—and there we came and lived occasionally before the races. The house was very old, and the wooden flooring quite out of repair. I was attacked in it by some very disagreeable symptoms. I suppose I had walked on the floor in my bed-room without slippers; for one morning I felt the most maddening itching in one of my toes, so I shouted for my servant Seeley, who was a first-rate attendant, and asked him what could be the matter. He and his wife had both been slaves who had been freed by Colonel Tidy, I think, of the 14th Regiment. The colonel had given Seeley a watch with an inscription on it at the time when he made him a free man. Whenever anything out of the common happened, Seeley would roll his eyes, and grin from ear to ear, showing his white teeth, and looking the embodiment of black mischief. Having examined my foot, he almost shouted with delight.

‘Yah! yah! Massa got jigger toe. Yah! yah!’

I did not appreciate his mirth and laughter.

‘What am I to do, you horrible old rascal?’ I exclaimed.

Seeley bent nearly double, and with his hands on the front of his thighs, assumed the attitude of long-stop at cricket, and continued to give expression to his sense of enjoyment. ‘Yah! yah! ho! ho!’ But at length he became quiet, and proceeded to business. Taking a needle, he began to scrape away at my toe, nearly driving me mad. Suddenly he exclaimed, ‘Hi haw!’ like a donkey braying, and then he appeared to force the needle gently into my foot, and brought out at the end of it a little bag, which he held up with a triumphant look; for this was the jigger, which had laid its eggs in my toe, and which, if allowed to remain, would have been attended with most serious consequences.

I had a thirty-ton cutter, in which I made several expeditions. Once I went to Trinidad, where the head-quarters of the 88th were stationed. I do not remember how long we took to go there, but I recall with pleasure that delightful sail over a calm sea, a favouring breeze filling our sails. As we cut through the water, flying fish darted here and there, either in fear or in play; the nautilus floated gracefully, dolphins leaped, and sometimes the horrid fin of a shark following our track might be seen. It is long ago since all this happened, and I can only trust to my memory, but I think the barracks where the Connaught Rangers were stationed must have been the very abode of fever. The mosquitoes were intolerable, and the heat intense. Lord Harris was governor then, and his gardens were beautiful. I well remember the luxurious marble bath in his grounds. My colonel, the late Sir H. Shirley, gave me a room in his quarters, and in the morning he awoke me to show a huge tarantula, as big as the back of my hand, which a gunner had found in his boot as he was about to pull it on. I also saw a centipede, which the assistant-surgeon of the regiment was preserving, so long that in a common-sized havanna cigar-box it could not be placed without almost doubling it. So my recollections of Trinidad are a conglomeration of tarantulas, mosquitoes, centipedes, iced champagne, and a hearty welcome.

My regiment went from the West Indies to Halifax, Nova Scotia. We changed from almost perpetual sunshine to a land where snow lay on the ground for months. When we landed, I well remember how fresh and beautiful everything looked. I had been accustomed for some years to see for the most part only the negro women, who, although possessing figures like graceful ebony statues, that showed to the finest advantage as they walked erect and firm, bearing their purchases from market on a tray carried on the top of their heads, still their faces, as a rule, were ugly, and always black. How surpassingly beautiful we thought the women of Halifax, with their dazzling complexions, who came to welcome the wild Irishmen; and further acquaintance showed that their beauty was only equalled by their frank and gentle ways. The year we remained at Halifax is a memory never to be effaced. The venerable and rickety old wooden barracks, which had been condemned during the time the Duke of Kent was in Nova Scotia, was burnt to the ground when the 88th and 38th Regiments occupied it as quarters. The conflagration was a grand sight, which we would willingly have dispensed with, as the Connaught Rangers never received any compensation for the mess napery and other valuables lost in that magnificent bonfire.

The mention of land-crab catching in Grenada recalls to me the lobster-spearing at Halifax, a sport which was carried on at night. In the bows of the boat large fires were kept burning. Standing ready, the sportsman holds in his grasp a trident, which is not pointed, but is like a huge pair of tweezers. The lobsters are seen crawling beneath the clear water. A sudden dart is made with the trident, the tweezers open, and seize the prey, which is hauled on board and thrown among others in the bottom of the boat. Many dozens are caught in this way, and the scene is very exciting when there are several boats, the fires in them looking strange and weird-like.

If I were to begin recalling old times at Halifax, with its sleigh club in winter and the flowers of its summer, I fear I should become very wearisome. When my regiment was quartered in Nova Scotia, we got a bear, about the size of a small donkey, which became a great favourite. The order came for us to return home in the troopship Resistance, commanded by Captain Bradshaw. Great was our consternation when that officer issued a proclamation that only a certain number of pets, and no bears, should be allowed on board. We all vowed that the bear was not to be left behind, and a clever plan to smuggle it on board was hit upon by two of my brother officers. As there were many casks to be hoisted on board, chloroform was administered to our bear, and he was packed in one of them. As it was going to be hoisted in the air, the captain asked,

‘What’s in that big barrel?’

The Ranger, who was seeing it elevated, answered, promptly,

‘The warm clothing of the regiment, sorr,’ and being asked by a comrade why he said so, he observed, with a wink, ‘Begorra, I thought the ould Tartar moight see the fur through the bunghole of the cask and smell—a bear!’

The sailors were delighted and helped to stow our favourite away, and I believe the captain never knew anything about it till we had been some time at sea, and then he pretended to have been cognizant of the fact all along. Our bear was with us at Parkhurst Barracks, and was always in a friendly disposition with all. A young fellow dined at our mess, and I suppose drank too much champagne, for he was discovered peacefully reposing beside the bear in its kennel.

The 38th Regiment brought home two bears, very fine, large animals. A child was playing with them and got a hug, which killed the poor little thing. Down came an official from the Horse Guards with orders that all regimental bears were to be destroyed; we gave ours, however, to the Zoo, where it lived in the pit and was fed with buns by children. Round its neck was a brass collar with ‘Connaught Rangers’ engraved on it. I do not know its further history.

CHAPTER III.
ENGLAND AND THE CONTINENT.

RETURN TO ENGLAND—PARIS—ENGLISH AND FRENCH OFFICERS—UN VERITABLE ROSBIF—PLUM POUDIN—TOUCHING COURTESY—ISLE OF WIGHT—PARKHURST BARRACKS—ELECTION AT COWES—A TIPSY DRIVER—CAMP AT CHOBHAM—VISITORS TO THE CAMP—THE REV. DR. CUMMING—IN THE MANUFACTURING DISTRICTS—ORDERED TO THE EAST—GENEROUS CONDUCT OF THE CUNARDS—WAR DITTIES—SCUTARI—A WRESTLING MATCH—A GOOD STORY—A FAIRY SCENE—THE SULTAN’S WIFE.

CHAPTER III.

On our arrival in England we disembarked at Chatham and marched to Canterbury, where we were quartered for some months. The 17th Lancers, who occupied the cavalry barracks, were one of the most hospitable and pleasant corps I ever met; many of them have passed away, many of them fell in the glorious charge of Balaclava, but at the time of which I write they formed a gathering of the finest specimens of the light dragoon.

When the leave time came round I went to Paris. The late emperor was then President of the French Republic, and enjoyment seemed the order of the day. The balls of the Tuileries were most amusing; all officers were in uniform, and the dress of the 17th Lancers of that day, several of whom were present at one of these balls, was universally admired. I went in the tight coatee with epaulettes which was an infantry officer’s costume at that time, and no doubt thought myself very fine; but my vanity received a shock when a French lady passed, and, looking towards me, said to her friend, ‘Ma foi, c’est un véritable Rosbif!’ We were received with great civility by the officers of the artillery quartered at Vincennes, who invited us to pay them a visit, which we did a day or two after the ball. Nothing could exceed the friendliness of these French gunners. We dined with them in a café, as they had no mess, and I remember the great event was the ‘plum poudin,’ the very remembrance of which fills my mind with horror. The excitement of the Frenchmen was intense when a large soup tureen was placed on the table. ‘Ah, le voilà! Le plum poudin! Ah, oh!’ When the cover was removed a mass of liquid horrors was brought to view, among which a bottle of cognac was poured and then lighted. This fearful decoction was ladled out into soup plates, and with anxious eyes our friends gazed on us as we began to eat. I suppose the brandy saved us, but we certainly endangered our lives for the honour of our country.

When we were leaving, these kindly-disposed fellows insisted on paying our cab hire to Paris, and we had the greatest difficulty in preventing them doing so. We were anxious to give them some return for their civility, so the lancers and myself resolved to ask them to dinner at the Rocher de Cancale. A note was therefore despatched requesting the pleasure of their company. A reply came to me from one of them, a nice young fellow called Joubert, begging us to postpone the entertainment for a week. Of course this was complied with, and when the week had elapsed we had a very jolly party. Joubert accounted for the delay which had been requested, which was owing, as he said, to the fact that we had honoured them with our presence in plain clothes, and, as they had nothing but uniform, they had to get mufti made! This was quite touching by its simple courtesy.

We had a great deal of fun during our stay in Paris. On our first arrival my friends, the lancers, asked me to order dinner at the ‘Trois Frères,’ which was in existence then. I was determined to have a good dinner; but I had forgotten Parisian ways, having been absent for so long in the West Indies and America. Anyway, I ordered a portion for each person. I think we numbered eight; so there were eight soups, eight fish, eight of each entrée, &c., and the room seemed hardly large enough to contain our various plats. How we did laugh and enjoy ourselves! With one exception, I am now the only one left of that merry party.

My leave was drawing to a close, so I left Paris, where every moment had been so occupied. I had not done much in letter-writing, and was, therefore, quite ignorant of regimental news. On arriving at Canterbury, I got a fly, and ordered the driver to take me to the barracks; but, on reaching the infantry lines, I was surprised to find all in darkness, although it was only about half-past seven in the evening.

At length an 88th man came up to the carriage in which I was seated.

‘What’s become of everybody?’ I exclaimed.

‘Well, sorr, they’re all gone; a sudden order came, and they’re gone, except just a few to give over the barracks.’

‘Gone—where to?’ I asked.

After a time he replied, ‘They’re gone, sorr, to some island; but I disremember the name.’

With this very unsatisfactory information, I told cabby to drive me to the ‘Fountain Hotel,’ where I was told that the regiment had left for the Isle of Wight.

Parkhurst Barracks was occupied by only one battalion, the 88th, and the four company dépôt of the Cameronians. What delightful quarters the Isle of Wight was in these days! There was no railway then in the island; a four-horse coach plied between Newport and Hyde, and the drive was most enjoyable. The pretty little villages have now become staring towns. It is difficult to find a retired nook in the noisy country now all built over.

The officers of the 88th received the greatest hospitality from everyone in the Isle of Wight. The numbers were not overwhelming, there being few red-coats at the barracks. The private soldiers also were most kindly treated by the inhabitants of this charming island. It is a strange fact that at home in Britain, because a man wears a red coat and is liable to a greater punishment for drunkenness than a civilian, kind-hearted men consider themselves bound to offer him a dram, and even press him to take it, while to another class of men they would only wish ‘God speed.’ When my regiment was quartered at Parkhurst Barracks, an election took place, and the usually quiet town of Cowes was very excited. I had been asked to dinner there by a very hospitable host, and a married brother officer offered me a seat in his carriage. The party was a very pleasant one, and the cheers of the successful candidate’s supporters were distinctly heard every now and then.

When we were leaving, my friend saw that his coachman, a private soldier, had been drinking success to the newly-elected member—in other words, was very drunk, so he whispered to me to get inside with his wife, and that he would drive. The lady, however, was not to be deceived by remarks about the pleasures of smoking a cigar and driving home by moonlight. She soon exclaimed,

‘I am sure there is something wrong,’ and at this moment coachee made a tremendous lurch. ‘The servant is drunk. He will knock my husband off the box. Oh! Captain Maxwell, do, do something.’

What could I do to pacify this kind lady, whose husband was my dearest friend? I was in a dreadful quandary. A bright idea came to the anxious wife.

‘Oh, Captain Maxwell, will you hold the man on to the box?’

So I let down the front window, and with considerable difficulty got hold of some part of the horrid man’s dress, and so pretended to keep him steady. The tipsy wretch made a horrible lurch, and, giving his master a poke in the ribs, said, in a tone half jovial, half sad,

‘Meejor, the missus is pulling my tail!’

We left the Isle of Wight, and, after being quartered for some months at Portsmouth, proceeded to join the camp at Chobham. How much we enjoyed that bloodless campaign, and how absurdly proud of ourselves we all were! The Connaught Rangers were composed of as fine a body of men as could be mustered anywhere, well seasoned soldiers, full of loyalty to the Queen, and imbued with a thorough knowledge of their duties, which it takes many years to learn, and thus enable a private to become a good non-commissioned officer. In two years from that time how few remained alive! Most of them repose in death on the heights of Sebastopol, where the wild flowers cover their honoured graves. But Chobham was the first camp which had been formed for many years, and we all enjoyed it very much. It was amusing to watch the curiosity displayed by civilians. I have often seen visitors to the camp walk through our mess-kitchen, and horrify our cook by taking the lids off some of his most cherished pots to see what we were to have for dinner.

I remember one day, after a long field-day in the warm sun, going to my tent, throwing myself into an arm-chair, and very nearly falling asleep, when I heard a whispering going on at the entrance, which was gently opened, when a pretty face peeped in, and I heard the remark made, ‘He is asleep,’ but, like the celebrated weasel, I had an eye open. One peculiar feature of Chobham at that time was, that friends who had previously ignored one’s existence all of a sudden became greatly interested in our welfare, especially about luncheon time. The camp at Chobham was the first opportunity many of us had of seeing regiments combined together in brigades and divisions. It was a grand picnic, and was the melodious overture to the great tragedy of the Crimean War.

We were visited by royal personages, by soldiers, sailors, lawyers, and clergymen. The celebrated Dr. Cumming once addressed the men. I remember some of his remarks:

‘I am a man of peace, but, if anyone tried to knock me down, I would do all I could to floor him first.’

The chaplain-general preached a sermon. He said,

‘The last time he had seen such a gathering of soldiers, he himself had taken an active part, for he was then an officer under Wellington.’

Though no one was certain then that there would be war, yet there was a sulphurous vapour impregnating the air, which the most peaceable inhaled, and the next year the Crimean campaign came on.

After leaving Chobham, we were sent to the manufacturing districts. The head-quarters was stationed at Bury, in Lancashire, and the left wing, to which I belonged, was sent to Ashton-under-Line. The cotton-spinners were most hospitable to us. I have a very kindly remembrance of a Mr. Harrison, whose house was in the neighbourhood of our barracks, and who showed me the greatest kindness. But the plot was thickening, and the order came for the Connaught Rangers to embark for the East. The whole of Ashton turned out to see us march away. The streets were decorated, and as the colours were carried past every head was uncovered. One man, however, standing near the hotel in the street through which we passed, did not take off his hat. A young fellow went up to him, and, I suppose, told him to uncover, but he refused to do so. I heard him say: ‘No, I won’t.’ The next moment he was lying on the ground, the young fellow having hit him right between the eyes, and knocked him down. As we proceeded onward, an old woman knelt, and in a loud voice blessed the colours.

When we arrived in Liverpool, we were halted near the Exchange, and the mayor made a speech, which was received with great cheering. The ships in the harbour were gaily decorated with flags, and crowds of people shouted and cheered. On the 4th of April, 1854, the Connaught Rangers embarked on board the Niagara, one of Cunard’s finest steamers, on which we were most sumptuously entertained. On arriving at Constantinople we asked for our bill, and were informed we were guests of the Cunards. We subscribed, and presented the captain with a watch.

Our passage out was a very prosperous one. A calm sea prevailed nearly all the time. Our band played often on deck, and in the bright moonlight the men sat in groups and sang merrily. I still possess some of their cheery ditties.

LOVE, FAREWELL.

‘Now, brave boys, we’re bound for marchin’,

Both to Portingale and Spain;

Drums are batin’, colours flyin’,

And the divil a back we’ll come agin.

So, love, farewell!

‘Eighty-eighty and Inniskillen,

Boys that’s able, boys that’s willin’,

Faugh-a-ballagh and County Down,

Stand by the Harp, and stand by the Crown.

So, love, farewell!

‘The colonel cries, “Boys, are yez ready?”

“We’re at your back, sir, firm and steady,

Our pouches filled with ball and pouther,

And a firelock sloped on every shoulther.”

So, love, farewell!

‘Och, Judy dear, ye’re young and tender,

When I’m away ye’ll not surrender,

But hould out like an ancient Roman,

And I’ll make you—an honest woman.

So, love, farewell!

‘Och, Judy, should I die in glory,

In the papers ye’ll read my awful story;

But I’m so bothered with yer charms,

I’d rather die within your arms.

So, love, farewell!’

I must give another specimen, which, if not very well spelt, is otherwise a proof of the loyalty of a gallant soldier, who afterwards fell at Sebastopol. I copy the whole as given to me on board the Niagara.

‘A soldier that is bound for this late war, and who goes with the most gratified assurance of coming home again with the head of the Disturber of Europe; or, dying like a soldier in the field, and with the heart of a real true subject, he says to his comrades:—

COME TO THE DANOBE.

(Composed by Private Edward Murphy, Light Company, 88th Regiment.)

‘Our allies to joine, my boys,

The English and Frinch

Is going to combine, my boys.

We’ll fight till the last,

And no mortal we’ll spare, my boys.

What better fun could you ask

Than chasing the bear, my boys?

Now let us with curage

Enter the field, my boys,

And the bigoted tyrent

We’ll make him yield, my boys;

And out of the Principalities

We’ll make him elope;

We’ll show him more play

Then he got at Synope.

Come, then, come to the Danobe.

For the Rangers at present

Is wiling to fight, I know,

And with Colonel Shirley no

Dangers they’ll slight, I know.

May he lead them on to fame,

As Wallace before has don,

And live to command us

Untill the battle’s won.

Then come to the Danobe,

And our officers all

The right sort of chaps are they,

Comboyned one and all,

And ready for the fray,

We’ll conquer or die,

And may we all live to see

The Rushins to fly,

Beat both on land and sea.’

On arriving at Gallipoli, we received orders to proceed on to Constantinople. A boat was upset close to our steamer, and one of the Turks took refuge in the paddle-wheel! Most fortunately, he was not killed. When he came on board, we gave him dry clothes, and, as it was the men’s dinner hour, they offered him some pork. His face would have made a good picture. I mention this as the first mistake made by our soldiers in their dealings with Mohammedans.

We anchored near Scutari, between the Sultan’s seraglio and the opposite shore, and in the afternoon we disembarked, and marched into Scutari Barracks, a fine building capable of containing six thousand men. My company, numbering over one hundred, were all in one room. The quarters told off for two subalterns and myself consisted of one large room, lighted by three windows, in front of which was an ottoman with pillows. Cleanliness was not the order of the day, so there were many inhabitants besides ourselves. Our view was not enlivening, as we looked out on the Scutari burying ground, where tall, sombre cypress-trees waved sadly over the tombs of thousands of Mahomet’s followers. In the evening we went for a walk, and, seeing a crowd, we made towards it and found two Turks stripped to the skin, their only garment being a kind of bathing drawers. They were smeared with oil and were engaged wrestling. The wrestlers were not a very pleasing sight, but the entourage was most amusing. Here was a Connaught Ranger in his neat red coat and white belt, without any weapon at all; there a wild warrior of some eastern tribe, armed to the teeth with formidable pistols and curved scimitar. There were women covered up to the eyes, but the eyes were soft and bright, Greeks with long pipes, Turks in green turbans, and Turks in white—a strange and animated scene.

A good story was told of a gallant colonel commanding a most distinguished regiment. He had been given quarters in the Sultan’s wing in Scutari Barracks. A pasha came to pay him an official visit, and, I suppose, approached with reverence the apartments sacred in his estimation. He took off his slippers at the door and entered the room, when, horror of horrors! what did he see?—the said colonel occupied frying pork in a dispatcher on the Sultan’s table.

A brother officer and myself crossed one day by the steamer which plied from Scutari to Galata, and there hired a caique. We were bound for the sweet waters of Europe. We were taken up the Golden Horn, and then floated past green hills and picturesque-looking cottages. All round us were hundreds of gilded caiques laden with handsome women in glittering attire, and boats whose Greek crews sang in wild chorus. As we proceeded onward the river became narrow, and we arrived at the sweet waters of Europe. It was a fairy scene. Graceful forms in lovely dresses were dotted here and there on the green grass under the shade of the trees, very transparent veils concealing their faces, their long fringed eyes beaming upon us, for the unbelievers were in high favour at that time. We passed also stately Turks, gay Frenchmen, steady-looking Britons, and wonderful Cinderella coaches. A gilded carriage approached, drawn by four black horses, covered with silver trappings; this was followed by a line of other gilded coaches surrounded by armed blacks. A lovely woman glittering with diamonds, her face barely concealed by the thin gauze she wore, was in the stately equipage. This was the Sultan’s wife. In the third carriage following hers was seated a most beautiful girl, by whose charms my brother officer was quite struck. Though he was jostled by the armed blacks, pushed by the escort, knocked by the Turks, he still kept as close as possible to No. 3 carriage. There are many old women at the valley of sweet waters who sell bouquets. One came near and offered some flowers to my brother-officer, who took them, and, watching his opportunity, presented them to this Nourmahal. She smiled and placed them in her bosom, and, taking a rose from the bouquet, held it towards my friend, and then pressed the flower to her lips, on perceiving which the armed blacks began to swagger offensively. The escort of lancers closed up, and, as the carriages were moving away, she rolled her handkerchief up and threw it at my bewildered friend. She then held a looking-glass towards him and pressed it in her arms, thus ending the romance as far as I know, for the gilded coaches and prancing escort all moved on and gradually faded from our sight.

CHAPTER IV.
IN TURKEY AND THE CRIMEA.

ENCHANTING SCENE—LOSS OF BAGGAGE HORSES—SIR GEORGE BROWN’S ORDER—IDENTIFICATION OF LOST HORSES—DEALINGS WITH THE PEASANTRY—FORAGING—CHOLERA IN BULGARIA—DISAGREEABLE MISTAKE—DR. SHEGOG—DEVOTION TO HIS WORK AND SUDDEN DEATH—DEATH OF AN OFFICER—EMBARKATION AT VARNA—THE BLACK SEA FLEET—KIND SOLDIERS—OUR FIRST SCARE IN THE CRIMEA—KINDNESS OF LORD RAGLAN—AN OUTLYING PICQUET—STORY OF A CONNAUGHT RANGER—CAPTURE OF BALACLAVA—A SERIOUS MISTAKE.

CHAPTER IV.

An the 29th of May, 1854, we embarked on board the Cambria, and on the 30th arrived at Varna, where we encamped for a few days. On the 5th of June we changed our ground. Our tents were pitched on a height between two lakes. The hills all around us were covered with young trees in beautiful foliage, and on our right was a valley, through which a broad river flowed. The green hills were dotted everywhere with white tents, and curling smoke was stealing out of the woods from many a bivouac fire. It was an enchanting sight. Some of our baggage horses had been stolen, but a few had been recovered. As there was a difficulty, however, in recognising them, Sir George Brown, the general of the light division, issued an order that each animal belonging to the different regiments forming the light division should have some identifying mark, so that, if any of them were stolen, their recovery might be facilitated.

The adjutant of the Connaught Rangers, Arthur Maule, gave orders to his batman to have his initials burnt on his horse’s hind-quarters. I suppose Paddy did not know what initials meant, for Maule, on proceeding with his batman to inspect his nag, found B. R. beautifully clipped and burnt on the charger’s hind-quarters.

‘What does B. R. mean?’ said the astonished officer. ‘My initials are A. M.’

‘Arrah, sure, sir,’ replied the rather offended groom, ‘B. R. stands for British Army.’

The peasantry were much alarmed at our approach at first; but they very soon found out that we were willing to pay freely for the produce of their farms, and in process of time they actually walked through our camp shouting out what they had for sale. One poor man I heard crying out, in a very loud voice, ‘Bono Johnny. Bono bad eggs!’ the result, no doubt, of some wag’s tuition. Colonel Sanders, of the 19th Regiment, and myself rode out one day to forage among the villages, whose inhabitants were generally pleased to provide us with whatever they possessed for a consideration.

This day we had been very successful, and our appearance would have surprised those at home, who think officers of the Army the most luxurious of men. Colonel Sanders had become possessor of several fresh eggs, which he placed in his pockets. I was the proud owner of a duck and two hens, which were put in front of me on the baggage pony I was riding. We got on very well at first; but my duck became obstreperous, and the hens struggled, so my nag began to kick, and roused Colonel Sanders’ charger to do likewise—alas! for the colonel’s coat, where now the pomp and circumstance of glorious war? ‘Oh! the eggs are all smashed!’ was the colonel’s most distressing announcement. We rode into camp very curious specimens of the British soldier. Sanders went away to pass a mauvais quart d’heure with his batman, and I was received with joy by my servant, Hopkins, who expressed his delight in the following forcible, if not very elegant terms:

‘Hurroo! here’s fowls. I’ve had nothing to rub the sweat off my teeth but stale bread, Hurroo!’

The time passed in Bulgaria by the light division would have been a long continued picnic had not pestilence come upon us, and cholera visited our camp in its most cruel form. It is very sad to recall to one’s memory that beautiful spot which simply by a change of wind was altered from a paradise to a place where death in one of its most horrid forms reigned supreme. We changed our ground very often, but the hideous demon followed us wherever we went, and we welcomed the order when issued for the light division to march to Varna, there to embark.

One cold, raw evening, when cholera was at its worst, several of us were sitting in my tent drinking hot rum and water. The sergeant of my company came to make some report, and I offered him some hot grog, which he accepted. With the greatest care I mixed the drink, and gave it to him, while he made some kindly remark as he drank it off, and then went away. Some one else, coming into the tent soon after, was also invited to ‘liquor up.’ The mug in which the sergeant’s grog had been was still on the table, and the little that was left looked so curious that I put my lips to it, and was terribly distressed to find that I had used salt instead of sugar in concocting it. The great fear came over me that it would make the sergeant feel sick, and that he might fancy he had taken cholera; so I sent for him, and, when he came, I told him of my mistake. His answer surprised me; for he said he knew it was salt from the taste.

‘But, sergeant, was it not very horrid?’ I exclaimed.

‘Well, sir, it was rather nauseous,’ he replied.

‘Why did you drink it?’ I asked.

‘I did not like to let on that I knew it, as you had kindly given me the drink,’ was the astounding reply.

On our march to Varna, we were encamped on the ground which had been vacated by the 79th Highlanders. Our tents were pitched, but great difficulty had been experienced in getting the sick settled in camp, and the doctors had been most terribly overworked. When the detachment of the 88th Regiment were quartered at Grenada in the West Indies, I saw mentioned in the Gazette the appointment to the Connaught Rangers of a man with a very curious name, Shegog. This name haunted me, and I never took up a newspaper without reading that Shegog was appointed assistant-surgeon to the 88th. The steamer arrived early one morning at Grenada, and I was wondering what news had come from England when my servant announced, ‘Dr. Shegog.’ The doctor was a curious-looking man, with very prominent eyes, and, when he put his hat on, it was always very far back on his head; but, when we came to know him, we found that there never was a truer man than ‘Old Shay;’ no warmer heart ever beat than his. He accompanied the regiment to Nova Scotia; and after being quartered, on our return home, with me at Ashton-under-Line, he embarked with the 88th on board the Niagara, to proceed to Turkey, in April, 1854.

When cholera attacked the light division in Bulgaria, Dr. Shegog never flagged in his attentions to the sick, while he took but little care of himself. The hospital tent was a fearful place to visit. The poor men were lying on the ground writhing in agony; crying out to be rubbed in accents most pitiful to hear. Others were too far gone to feel pain—their last hour was nearly come. ‘Old Shay’ was everywhere, and doing all in his power for the suffering soldiers. The Roman Catholic priest might be seen kneeling beside the dying men whispering hope to their passing spirits.

The joyous order came at last to move to Varna for embarkation. The news came like a tonic, and the weary men seemed to gain strength at once. Our brigade marched away, and we were full of joyful anticipations. Dr. Shegog had been so occupied looking after the sick that he had no time to think of himself. The poor fellow’s tent was pitched, but he had no dinner to eat. Steevens, Browne, and I messed together, and, as our repast was over, nothing remained. Shegog came to my tent, and asked if we could give him something to eat, but we had not one scrap left. He was told there was lots of brandy, to which he was welcome at any time. He thanked us, but said he wanted something to eat, and at that moment Maule, the adjutant, appeared, and said, ‘Come along. Old Shay, I have something cold in my tent,’ and so he went away. Next morning, poor, kind-hearted Shegog died of cholera. A man came to me, and told me that the doctor was very ill. When I saw him, all pain was over, and he soon sank to rest. He was buried under the shade of a tree. Who knows the place of his grave now? But what matter? Wherever he may be laid, it is the resting-place of a true and honest worker who lost his life in helping the sick and weary.

As we returned to the camp from Shegog’s funeral, one of my brothers-in-arms said he felt very unwell. We cheered him up as well as we could, but as the night went on he became really ill, and, in the morning, our surgeon passed my tent, and said, ‘Mackie has got cholera.’

The regiment was preparing to proceed on the march to Varna, for we had nearly reached our destination, and our chief, Shirley, proposed that Mackie should be left till later in the day—under charge of a guard—but, as he decided to accompany the battalion, a stretcher was made as comfortable as possible for him, and he was carried by some men of his company. On approaching Varna, he asked them to lower him down to the ground, which they had no sooner done than poor Mackie expired.

Our embarkation at Varna was effected without difficulty. Our vessel, which was towed by a steamer, formed one of that magnificent fleet of men-of-war and transports that covered the Black Sea for miles. When night came on, the scene was marvellous to look upon; light after light shining in the far distance over the calm sea. Sometimes the sea resembled a large harbour full of vessels at anchor, then it assumed the appearance of long streets in some vast town, but all was silent, and filled our minds with awe.

The light division landed at Old Fort in the Crimea. There was no opposition from the Russians, not one of whom was visible, except some Cossacks on a distant hill. We marched only a few miles from where we had disembarked, and halted in what appeared to be a stubble-field, but, as darkness had come on, it was difficult to know where we were. While we were in this state of perplexity, it began to rain. I was dressed in, I believe, the identical coat in which I had appeared at the Tuileries ball, which was uncomfortable for even a drawing-room, but quite unsuited for a wet night in a ploughed field. For hours the rain continued, and we were all wet through. The men, in the morning, managed to light a fire, and one of them brought me a mug of hot rum and water, which was most delicious. What kindly fellows these private soldiers were in those by-gone days! I daresay they are the same now, but I only testify to what they were then, from my experience of them.

In a day or two we got our tents and were comparatively comfortable. One night some firing was heard, which was taken up by the whole line of sentries. What an excitement it was! Stevens and I shared the same tent, sleeping on the ground, without light of any kind, in total darkness. When the hurly-burly began—the buglers sounding the alarm, followed by the assembly—we both jumped up, and struggled to get our shakoes, which, of course, had hid themselves. Scrambling in the dark, our two heads came bang against each other, and nearly floored us both, but at length, after a fall over the tent ropes, we reached my company. One of our staff-sergeants was an excitable man. It is reported of him that on that night he rushed about with a drawn sword in a most frantic way, and nearly knocked over a bugler, who, seeing this wild man rushing at him, fell on his knees, exclaiming, in terrified accents,

‘Spare me, spare me, I’m a frind!’

This was our first scare in the Crimea, and was caused by some horses having got loose and surprised the sentries.

The story of the Crimean War has been told so often that I am not going to inflict the oft-repeated tale on my friends, but only mention a few facts which are not universally known.

It was the day before the battle of the Alma, when one of my brother officers was taken very ill with symptoms of cholera. There was a small house, I think a post-house, near our bivouac, and my friend took refuge there. He had not been long established in these humble quarters when a staff officer came and informed him he was sorry he must turn him out, but that Lord Raglan’s head-quarters had been fixed there, and that his lordship was then approaching.

Lord Raglan came up during this conversation, and, on being informed of the case, insisted that my brother officer should remain undisturbed where he was, had a chair brought in to make him more comfortable, and, later in the day, with his one hand, carried a bowl of soup to my suffering friend, and this was on the night before the battle of the Alma. Lord Raglan showed in many acts what a kind heart was his. Later, when the siege of Sebastopol was progressing, Nat Stevens and I were sitting in our closed tent, enjoying a fire. Nat was an inventive genius, and had found an old funnel lying about, and had made a kind of a chimney, through which escaped some of the smoke, that was caused by a few damp roots burning in a very primitive fire-place. We were actually weeping for joy, as a great deal of smoke refused to leave us. It was snowing heavily outside the tent, when a voice was heard shouting. With many exclamations of disgust Nat opened the tent. A figure on a horse, all alone, was barely visible in the snow.

‘What are you burning?’ asked the rider. ‘I see you have a fire by the smoke.’

‘Roots,’ answered Nat.

‘Remember, do not burn charcoal; an officer of the 97th Regiment has lost his life by doing so,’ said Lord Raglan, for he it was, who, bent on deeds of kindly care, rode, unlike the French generals, unattended by any staff, his visits to the camp thus remaining unknown.

After the battle of the Alma I was ordered to take my company on outlying picquet. The night was pitch dark, and my instructions were to communicate with the 19th and 77th, the other two regiments of our brigade. I could see nothing in front, and in our rear were the bivouac fires of the light division, and I heard no sound but the murmur of the voices of the men. At length I was aware that some one mounted was approaching, and a voice said, ‘Who is in command here?’ I advanced and explained my position. The owner of the voice gave me several instructions, one of which was to light a fire, ‘and, if anyone asks you who gave you these orders, say General Pennefather,’ and he rode away.

The men of my picquet lit a fire, and very soon after the picquets of the 19th and 77th approached, attracted by the light, for they also had been puzzled what to do. We had not been long settled when a clatter of cavalry sounded coming towards us, and an English voice made the same observation the general had done! ‘Who is in command here?’ I made myself known, and great was my surprise to find Thompson of the 17th Lancers, with a detachment of his regiment, roaming about. For a moment or two we recalled old scenes in Paris; for he had formed one of that merry party. We shook hands, and he rode away. I never saw him again. He was killed in the charge of the light brigade at Balaclava.

Archdeacon Wright told a good story of a Connaught Ranger, after the battle of the Alma. When we moved on, and came to the river Katcha, where we halted for the night, there was near our bivouac a country house, which had been deserted by its inhabitants a very short time before our arrival. The property was a valuable one, and there were extensive cellars, in which were many large casks of wine. The archdeacon was roaming among them, when all of a sudden he came on a soldier of the Connaught Rangers, who, on being discovered, began to tap the big barrels with a stick, and appeared to listen attentively to the sound he made.

‘What are you doing there, my friend?’ said the archdeacon.

‘May it plase yer riverence,’ replied the man, ‘I was looking for the well, and thought perhaps these barrels moight howld water.’

Some of the men of my company had also been looking for water, for they brought me a huge can full of the best red wine I ever tasted, and just in time; for an order was issued soon after forbidding the men to stray away from the lines of their regiments.

After the flank march through the woods—a most fatiguing performance—and having come to Mackenzie Farm, and the rear of Menschikoff’s army, where his carriage was taken, in which was a drunken aide-de-camp, we continued on to Traktir Bridge, and next day advanced on Balaclava, which was easily captured. What a pretty smiling little harbour it was then! approached through vineyards laden with the most magnificent grapes.

I there received an order to remain in command of some men of the 88th, who were to form part of a dépôt under command of a colonel. The dépôt consisted of men from all the regiments. At first we bivouacked in the open, but, after a little, houses were appropriated for the men, and the officers had to shift for themselves. I found a cottage, in which was rather a pretty woman in great fear and distress. It was a clean little house, and I got some one to explain to the poor woman that her things would be safe, and that she might come and take them away whenever it suited her. So she seemed quite pleased, and presented me with some hens. I do not remember how she managed to get her things removed, but she and her property disappeared, and I was left in possession. A looking-glass, which now hangs on the wall in Monreith, is the only memento I have of that small house.

A very curious thing happened to me, which was very trying at the time, but in one way had its pleasing aspect, for it brought forth expressions of kindly feeling from men with whom I had small acquaintance. In the list of captains in the 88th I was fourth. George Vaughan Maxwell had been senior captain, but was promoted to be major. By some strange mistake, when the brevet came out in November or December, 1854, my name appeared as brevet-major, although there were three captains senior to me. Colonel Shirley went to Lord Raglan, and brought to his lordship’s notice the facts of the case: that my seniors were more entitled to the brevet than I was. Lord Raglan said it was a very hard case for my seniors, but that as I had received the brevet, the rule applied—once a major, always a major—and that I was a very lucky fellow.

So I did duty as a major, and commanded in the trenches as one—in short, was recognised as a brevet-major. But one cold winter’s morn I was informed that my appointment was a mistake, and that I must return to my former rank as captain. It was a very trying position, but no fault of mine. Everyone sympathised with me, and, when I went on duty to the trenches, the officer in command, generally, to show how much he felt for me, gave me charge of some most exposed party, a kindness I would have most gladly dispensed with. My relations at home were very indignant—one sterling friend of mine was most energetic in her efforts to see me righted, and on one occasion attacked a great man in authority so strongly that at length he rose, exclaiming,

‘Duchess, I can remain no longer. I sit on a Board at two o’clock.’

‘Well,’ said her grace, ‘I can only hope that it may be a very hard one.’

CHAPTER V.
THE PUNJAUB.

SENT TUMBLING INTO A DITCH—SIR HOUSTON STEWART—ORDERED TO ENGLAND—FEARFUL ACCIDENT ON H.M.S. BELLEISLE—LISBON—CHOLERA—A MAGNIFICENT REGIMENT—THE ‘ULYSSES’—A SCOTCH CAPTAIN—A LONG FAREWELL TO ENGLAND—CAPE PIGEONS—THE ALBATROSS—ARRIVAL IN INDIA—PERPLEXING NEWS—OUR POSITION IN INDIA—SERVANTS—ORDERED TO THE PUNJAUB—AGRA—INSTALLATION OF THE STAR OF INDIA—SHOWERS OF METEORS—DURBAR.

CHAPTER V.

During the siege of Sebastopol, the Connaught Rangers formed one of the left brigade, light division, the other regiments being the 19th and 77th. There was an officer belonging to the 19th who was a pure Scotchman. On being asked why he joined such a thoroughly English regiment as the 19th, he gave as his reason that his father was very old and his writing not distinct, and he had applied for his son to be appointed to the 79th Highlanders, but he had made the 7 so like a 1 that the authorities had gazetted him to the 19th.

When the final attack was made upon Sebastopol, the light division formed the storming party and supports. After running across the intervening ground between the trenches and the Redan, two hundred and eighty yards, and getting into the ditch and up on to the salient of the Redan, a check took place, and officers and men got no further. Some time elapsed, all the ammunition was expended, and no more was to be got. The Russians soon found this out, and charged us. The consequence was we were all sent tumbling over into the ditch which we had previously crossed. I fell flat among some poor fellows who never rose again, and my feelings of disgust were great when the above-mentioned officer put his foot—like a fiddle-case—in the centre of my back, and made use of me as a stepping-stone to get out of the ditch. I got out some way or other, and found myself, with many others, hurrying to our trenches, where I arrived in a very tattered condition. The first officer I met was my Scotch friend, who appeared greatly surprised to see me, and greeted me warmly, saying,

‘Maxwell! is that you? I thought you were dead. Have a drink,’ producing a flask, at which I was delighted to have a pull.

The siege was over, another winter had passed in luxury compared with the one that had gone before, summer was coming again, and the Sebastopol heights were clothed with flowers, which hid both shot and shell beneath their green leaves. Peace was made, and we were all dreaming of home.

I was paying a visit to Sir Houston Stewart, in his flagship, the Hannibal, commanded by my old friend, Sir John Hay. We had a most pleasant party, among whom was Sir Henry Bernard, a genial and agreeable companion. He now lies in his grave in front of Delhi. A man-of-war, the Belleisle, was reported as having arrived, and it was decided that the 88th Regiment should return to England in her. I was ordered to telegraph to the regiment, and next day they embarked. We were all in the greatest spirits. I bid adieu to the kind admiral and all friends in the Hannibal, and proceeded on board the Belleisle. A fatigue party of the regiment was engaged at the capstan when a fearful accident happened. I cannot tell what the cause of it was, but I believe the man who watched the chain neglected his duty. I can only state, however, what occurred. All of a sudden the chain ran out with great velocity, round went the capstan, and out flew the bars like porcupine quills. I was standing on the poop, and one of the capstan bars hit me on the face and marked me for life; but, far worse, a soldier, named Burke, who had been all through the siege, was killed outright. Another man had his leg broken, and others were wounded severely. Sir Houston Stewart telegraphed home that the accident had occurred, and that I was all right. I am glad he did so, for my brother had received the telegram, before he read in a Scotch paper that I was killed.

As we sailed away from Kamiesch Bay the Hannibal manned the yards, and the officers and men of the Connaught Rangers loudly cheered farewell as we left the shores of the Crimea for ever. We were towed by H.M.S. Firebrand, commanded by a most agreeable officer, Captain the Honourable Spencer, whom it has never been my fortune to meet since those days.

The Firebrand remained with us till we arrived at the coast of Portugal, when she left us, owing to cholera being very bad on board her. We touched at Malta and Gibraltar, and anchored at the mouth of the Tagus. As cholera was raging at Lisbon, we were not allowed to land, but Captain Hoskins, our commander, asked me to accompany him in a sail in the cutter to Belem and Lisbon. We paid a visit to a man-of-war lying off the latter place, and met a young artillery officer on his way home from the Crimea. He was in great spirits, and had a dog he had brought with him from Sebastopol. He wanted me to land at Lisbon, and laughed a good deal when I informed him that we were not allowed to do so, owing to the prevalence of cholera. He said he had been often in the town, and was always quite well. We returned, however, to the Belleisle without landing.

Next morning, before putting to sea, Captain Hoskins received some letters from Lisbon, and startled us very much when he announced the death from cholera of that young officer we had met the day before. In process of time we arrived at Portsmouth. It was home-like to see once more the gay yachts skimming about between Cowes and Ryde; for it was the summer season. We landed, and were ordered to Aldershot, where we had the honour of parading before Her Majesty the Queen—two thousand strong. What a grand regiment might have been picked out of these splendid men! but most of them were discharged. The Indian Mutiny then broke out, but the best part of these warriors had been sent out of the service, and we bitterly felt their loss.

We came home in July, 1856, and in July, 1857, the Connaught Rangers embarked for India in course of relief.

When the 88th went out to India in 1857, as before mentioned, it was for the usual relief, and not in consequence of the mutiny; for, when we left the shores of Britain on the 9th of July, the terrible facts of the insurrection were unknown to us. I was in command of the left wing, which embarked at Portsmouth on board the good ship Ulysses, to proceed round the Cape to Calcutta. The Ulysses was a fine sailing vessel, chartered by Government to carry troops; her usual passengers being emigrants. The captain was a worthy Scotchman, but his ideas of comfort were limited. The morning we embarked, my brother having come to see me off, I asked him to breakfast on board. There was bread, and tea, and a bowl of boiled eggs, but no milk or butter. My brother took an egg and broke the shell, it was bad; he took another, it was worse; so he gave it up as a bad job, but the captain encouraged him to go on by saying, ‘Crack awa, crack awa, ye’ll soon come to a good yin.’ I was obliged to make a report to the proper authorities, and the worthy man was enlightened as to the fact that officers of Her Majesty’s regiments in those days were not to be treated like emigrants; and for the future we were fed in a cleaner and more wholesome manner. At Spithead we bade adieu to relations, friends, and acquaintances. And thirteen years passed away before I again looked upon the fair Isle of Wight and England’s shores.

Our honest skipper, although quite unaccustomed to deal with gentlemen passengers, was a very kindly man. Evidently, in his former voyages, he had seen many a disagreeable quarrel among his emigrants, for he was very much afraid of any unpleasantness occurring. I proposed starting a newspaper, to be called the Ulysses Gazette, which was to come out every Saturday, in which anyone who pleased might write an article.

The old captain looked alarmed.

‘Ye won’t, colonel, have any pairsonaylities, I hope,’ was his timid remark.

The Gazette came out, and was a great success. Some of my brother officers established a school on board, which was well attended by the men. We had a very good time, and all the officers were most friendly. I cannot say the same for the soldiers’ wives (there were no ladies on board), who appealed to me sometimes as colonel on subjects regarding which my legal knowledge was not sufficient to instruct or help them.

When our ship came to a certain latitude we were surrounded day and night by Cape pigeons, graceful, white angels they looked in the pale moonlight, but most unpleasant birds when brought on board, as they immediately became vulgarly sick. Albatrosses soared above, and sharks followed us. When we were in the latitude of the Cape, the sea was the finest spectacle I ever saw. It ran mountains high, but it was as if oil had been poured on its surface. Our vessel rose up to the summit of one of those unbroken hills, and then glided down the other side, just to rise up again. It was a wonderful sight.

In the month of November we anchored off the Sandheads, having left England on the 9th of July, and never having sighted land the whole way till we saw the shores of India. We now received the astounding intelligence of all the horrors of the mutiny, and the perplexing news that Delhi was taken. Taken by whom? We had been so long at sea we knew nothing. In a day or two we landed at Calcutta, and our gallant ship, which had brought us safely out, was wrecked on her way home. Fortunately, however, the captain and crew were saved.

When the Connaught Rangers first landed at Calcutta the great shock of the mutiny was being severely felt. Very few of us knew anything about the ways of the country, and we were, so to speak, cast adrift in a foreign land. We had great difficulty in procuring anything. I shall not enlarge on these troubled times. The generation that lived through them is passing away, and with them is fading the intense bitterness that the fearful atrocities of Cawnpore called forth—so utterly forgotten now that I read books that make high-minded remarks on the unforgiving spirit that actuated us in those days. It is better to forget; but the retribution was not too heavy for the crimes committed.

In this country good or bad servants seem a very minor consideration; not so in India, where comfort is so essentially in the hands of domestics. One of our greatest difficulties in landing was procuring any. All the good servants had vanished, and for some time we were obliged to be satisfied with a very inferior lot. One of my brother officers got a man called Paul, a miserable little man, who was always getting drunk. When we marched to Cawnpore after the capture of Calpee, a great many men of the regiment got fever, and, among other officers, Paul’s master was very ill. The wretched servant got drunk in the bazaar, and was made a prisoner—at least, so it was supposed, for he did not return to his master, and no one knew what had become of him. Time went on and my brother officer got better, and pour passer le temps either rode or drove into the town of Cawnpore to look at the place still stained with the blood of its victims. Either by chance or from a desire to see the sepoy prisoners, my friend arrived at the kotwallee or guard-house where these mutineers were incarcerated, and, to his great dismay, he saw among these ironed rebels a wretched little man, who shouted: ‘Me Paul! me poor Paul!’ Much surprised, he went to the kotwal and asked why the man was among the rebels, but could get no satisfactory reply. On explaining matters that most probably Paul had been locked up for drunkenness, and not rebellion, he got him released, as one of the policemen grimly observed, ‘just in time, for he would have been hanged in to-morrow’s batch.’

Paul left Cawnpore without much delay.

The story of the mutiny has been told over and over again. In time it was stamped out, but for a long period distant murmurings were still heard like those of a thunderstorm fading away. Gradually the air cleared, and Marochetti’s ‘Angel of Peace’ was placed on the Cawnpore Well. Beautiful flowers began to grow in a garden where once women and children were dragged to their death, and writers at home began to publish books to prove that all the horrors, murders, and atrocities were caused by the fault of the white inhabitants of India. So I pass over that sad and nearly forgotten time, and, leaping over several years, come to the year 1860, when the 88th Connaught Rangers proceeded to the Punjaub.

In the autumn of 1866 the Connaught Rangers, which I had then the honour to command, was ordered to proceed from Cawnpore, where we had been stationed for some time, to Rawul Pindee in the Punjaub. We were directed to halt, on our way up country, at Agra, to form part of a large camp there, to be assembled for the grand durbar to be held in honour of the installation of the Star of India. All the rajahs, princes, and begums of the empire were to be present, to meet Lord Lawrence, governor-general.

On our arrival at Agra, we found a very large force collected. We were nearly all under canvas, and so also were the princes of India, with their numerous retinues. The governor-general came into Agra the day after our arrival there, and from that hour the cannons of the fort and batteries had a hard time of it. As every prince went to wait on the viceroy a salute was fired, and, according to the number of rounds fired, we inferred the rank of the great man who sallied forth to cross the plain, followed by his marvellous suite of elephants, carrying gorgeously mounted howdahs, warriors riding on prancing pink-nosed horses, with tails and legs deeply dyed with red, to represent the blood of their enemies, down to the tag-rag and bobtail that are inseparable from the courts of those native princes.

The durbar was a magnificent sight. There we saw gathered together most of the great powers of India; the Begum of Bhopaul, our steady friend, men that had done us good service during our evil times, and others who had done us as little as they could. All had been rewarded, as far as possible, according to their works. Each noble vied with his neighbour in the number and beauty of his ornaments, and the rays of the sun blazed on priceless jewels.

But our stay at Agra was not a period of idleness. Reviews and sham battles kept the troops occupied from hour to hour. I had command of a brigade, and often left my tent before the dawn, when night still darkened all around, and the stars alone lit up the sky. It was during the month of November, and the fall of meteors was constantly to be seen; their appearance as they fell in dazzling brightness being most startling and sublime. From all parts of the compass they came. First a long stream of light, which reminded me of the ‘bouquets’ the Russians sent us during the siege of Sebastopol, and then a ball of fire, which burst like a rocket, leaving all in darkness again. And so it continued till the sun rose in its splendour, and the air became full of noisy life.

As a variety to our military morning work, there were various large dinners, given by the governor-general and the commander-in-chief. There were dances also. The Rajah of Jeypore entertained us all at a splendid ball, and Scindia illuminated the Taj. We should have enjoyed our halt at Agra very much had not that dreadful curse, cholera, invaded the camp, and caused the loss of several valuable lives. One night my wife alarmed me by assuring me that she felt very ill. The medicine-chest was in our other large tent, where my wife’s maid slept, at some distance from the one we were occupying. I got hold of my bearer, and, writing a note, dispatched him with it to M’Kay, the maid. After some delay, she appeared, very lightly clad, with my note in her hand, saying, ‘A man had come a long way with this, and wanted the colonel to get it at once.’ Her knowledge of Hindostani was limited, and she had not recognised the bearer.

CHAPTER VI.
DELHI.

BY TRAIN TO DELHI—THE RAILWAY STATION IN 1866—BRIDGE OF BOATS—PALACE OF DELHI—THE JUMNA—MUSJID—REMINISCENCES OF DELHI—VALUABLE COPY OF THE KORAN—AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF SULTAN BABER—MAUSOLEUM OF SUFTER JUNG—MARCH IN COLD WEATHER—LUXURIOUS TENTS—SOLDIERS’ WIVES IN INDIA—KURNAL—GOVERNMENT STUD—CHRISTMAS IN INDIA—UMBALLAH—TREMENDOUS STORM—UMRITSUR—MARCH INTO RAWUL PINDEE.

CHAPTER VI.

Owing to the fell presence of the grim visitor, cholera, the durbar broke up sooner than was intended, and my regiment received orders to proceed by train to Delhi, en route to Rawul Pindee. My wife not being very well, I decided to go on at night by passenger train. The left wing of the regiment was to follow by special train, but the station-master was not certain when he could despatch them, leaving a wide margin, between 6 p.m. or 1 a.m. 3 a.m. saw us, tired and miserable, at our journey’s end, standing on the railway platform, without a coolie to help us with our luggage, or any more light than the glimmer our own lantern afforded. Such was the Delhi railway-station in 1866.

A gharry was at last procured, and wearied and worn we started for the hotel (which had been our mess-house when the Rangers were stationed here in 1859). The railway did not cross the river Jumna, which was spanned by a bridge of boats. This entailed further delay, as the pair of ponies had to be taken out and changed for bullocks before we ventured on the swaying structure. But the longest and most tedious journey ends at last, and so did ours as we stopped at Hamilton’s hotel. It was bitterly cold, and as in India the traveller carries his own bedding, and our luggage was still at the station, we had not a very comfortable night’s rest. As the morning advanced everything looked brighter. The weather was perfect, reminding one of a breezy autumn day at home. We drove out to the camp, which we found pitched in the old cantonments outside Delhi, where our army was encamped so long during the memorable siege in 1857.

As we left Delhi we passed through the Cashmere Gate, a monument now of gallant daring. My tents were pitched under a tope of trees, and the breeze sighing among the branches sounded like the wind up aloft at sea. We met a great many regiments at Delhi, as it was the relief season, and they were all on their way to new quarters. It made the difficulty greater than usual of getting carriage conveyance.

Being delayed several days, we spent our time visiting the sights in and near Delhi, specially the palace in whose vast hall, with its many pillars of marble, once stood the peacock throne, which was carried away by Nadir Shah in 1739. Along the cornice on each side of the chamber there is written in Arabic the inscription, ‘If there be a paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this!’ The dilapidated state the whole of the palace was in when I first saw it in 1859 might have saddened anyone, but on this last visit what a change! Everything had been cared for, and the poetical beauty of the place was brought out with great success. In Delhi stands the Jumna-Musjid, i.e., the Friday mosque, Friday being the Mohammedan Sabbath. At the siege in 1857 our soldiers forced their way into this temple. A very great friend of mine, Coghill, who was then adjutant of the 2nd Fusiliers, was cheering the men on in his gallant, hearty way, and he came to what was called the holy of holies, a structure made in imitation of the prophet’s tomb at Mecca. Coghill seized hold of the koran, a large and heavy book kept in this place, and carried it off with several other wonders, such as a hair of the prophet’s moustache, and similar trustworthy valuables. As the koran was rather heavy, he handed it over to some one to take to one of the civilian officers.

After Delhi had fallen, I was anxious to get a remembrance of the great siege, and I became possessor of the koran. For a long time it reposed in one of my portmanteaus, but a native came to see me one day and said that it was known by certain Mohammedans that a copy of the koran was in my possession, and that it was very valuable, being one of the three original copies, one of which was at Mecca, another at Delhi, and the last I forget where. So I packed it up very carefully and sent it home to Scotland. Thinking that the Bodleian library would value such an acquisition, I offered it through a friend, but was informed that the koran was incomplete; so it still belongs to me.

Among many interesting accounts of Delhi, there is none more curious than that contained in the autobiography of Sultan Baber, who lived A.D. 1526. He was the ancestor of the old king of Delhi, who lost his throne by the mutiny of 1857. Baber was born to the throne of Ferghana, or Transosian, now the Russian province of Khokan. Sherbany Khan, the leader of the Usbegs, took all from him, but Baber (which means tiger) conquered all his overwhelming difficulties by his energy and courage. He gained the throne of Kabul, and was ruler of that country in A.D. 1525. As he had many adherents, he determined to invade India. Sultan Baber wrote his own autobiography in a dialect of the Turkish language; it was translated into Persian, and also into English fifty years ago by Dr. Leyden. The civilization of India is Turkish to this day. Until the year 1857 Baber’s descendants continued to reign in Delhi. ‘There are four roads,’ writes Baber, ‘that lead from Kabul to India; in all these there are passes more or less difficult, Lamghanat and Kheiber, Bangash, Naghz, and Fernul.’ The Lamghanat road is the present route from Kabul to Peshawur, and it was by it that Baber and his horsemen marched, and his baggage and cannon were conveyed; it was the scene of the Kabul massacre in 1842, when a British army was cut to pieces; it witnessed the triumphal march of a British army in 1879.

‘A.D. 1526, April 12th—The Turks, under Baber, arrived within two marches of Panipat—which lies fifty miles from Delhi—and on the 21st of April the battle was fought that gave India foreign masters for many centuries, and a form of government that it still retains.’

‘The same night, April 21st, A.D. 1526, Prince Humayon and Kurajeh Khan were despatched to take Agra, seventy miles away. Baber marched to Delhi. Delhi for three thousand years had been a great city. It was contemporaneous with Nineveh and Babylon. The city of Delhi of that day was called Firozabad. On a rocky hill, which extends on one side of the city, was a citadel, built by King Feroze a hundred years before the Turkish invasion. On another side of the city was King Feroze’s other palace, in which stood a trophy of war, a large monolith of stone, surmounted by the Moslem emblem of the crescent shining in brass. On it were inscriptions in the Pali tongue, which recalled a long-forgotten king, Asoka, the King Alfred of Hindoo history.’

All this information I copied at the time of reading it—the most interesting account of Sultan Baber’s journal. When I was quartered in Delhi, in 1859, I have often ridden over to these ancient ruins, and examined the inscriptions on the stone pillar, which had then lost the Moslem emblem mentioned above. The courtyard was then used for the commissariat bullocks, and the dust, flying about everywhere, was almost blinding. Delhi, in ancient times, was the largest city in Hindostan, covering a space of twenty square miles. It has now dwindled down to a circumference of seven miles; but the ruins of its former grandeur still exist, and a vast tract is covered with remains of palaces and mausoleums. We drove out to the Kootub-minar, that wonderful monument of a by-gone age. We passed on our way the once famous observatory, now much dilapidated, and no longer used for astronomical observation. In the eleven miles’ drive we saw a succession of tombs, generally solid, square edifices, with domed tops. We stopped at the mausoleum of Sufter Jung, which stands in a garden, and is a graceful reminiscence of a prince of Oude. After a dusty drive across a sandy plain, we thought the patch of green on which the Kootub stands, with its shady trees, a most refreshing sight.

Passing through Aladdin’s Gate, a very fine arch, we saw before us the splendid column of the ‘Minar.’ It rises in a succession of marvellous sculptured fluted columns, two hundred and forty feet high, very wide at the base, and diminishing in circumference at each series of joints till the summit is reached. Like the campaniles attached to churches abroad, whence the bells ring out their summons to prayer, so from the height of the Kootub the faithful were called to their devotions in the adjacent mosque. Sultan Baber, in his journal, mentions the Kootub as ‘that strange, tall, unrivalled pillar, which was raised to call the faithful to prayer in the splendid mosque open to the blue heavens below.’ We were informed that the Kootub had been erected by a prince, to enable his daughter to ascend every day and look upon the holy river Jumna, a feat which, if performed by her, must have kept her in first-rate condition, for the Kootub is, I think, higher than the Monument of London, and the winding stair is very steep.

At length we were enabled to leave Delhi. There is no more agreeable duty than a long march in India during the cold weather. After all the necessary preparations have been made; after the means of transport have been collected, and various other arrangements, trying to the temper and patience of commanding-officer, adjutant, and quarter-master, have been got over, the regimental order-book contains the following announcement, that ‘The regiment will parade at 3 a.m.,’ the next day. On the same evening that these orders are read to the companies, a detachment has marched away, with the camp color-men and the married people; the former to lay out the lines of the camp, the latter to be out of the way of the regiment.

I always sent on a tent to be pitched by my own native servants, and, when we arrived at the camping ground in the morning, we found everything ready. What luxurious tents these were! Each one consisted of a drawing-room, bed-room, and dressing-room, with a broad verandah, formed by an outer covering. Indian servants have a wonderful knack of arranging a room. As the tent we slept in was denuded of all furniture, excepting beds and a chair or two, when we arrived in the morning, we entered apparently the same sitting-room we had occupied the previous day. Not a book was in a different place—everything was the same. On some marches we rode in advance of the regiment, on others we drove in my wife’s carriage; but, whichever way we travelled, we enjoyed ourselves much. The Grand Trunk road of India, along which we were journeying, was the finest made road in the world, smooth, and level as a billiard-table. Ten to twelve miles was the average length of a day’s march.

The men throve wonderfully. It was splendid to see them quickening their swinging steps as they came in sight of the new camping ground, marching in, every man in his ranks, to the lively sound of the band, playing ‘Patrick’s Day in the Morning.’ As each company came to its camping ground, it was halted, and piled arms by command of its captain, and then the men proceeded to pitch the tents. It was a fine sight to behold. When the bugle sounded a long, melancholy note, as if by magic a white canvas town rose up on the dusty plain.

Then a sudden lull would fall on the busy scene. The men were preparing for breakfast. The camels, eased of their loads, were driven off to find their food in the neighbourhood; the patient bullocks lay by their carts, and munched chopped straw, or ruminated on the hardships of their life, while the married women of the regiment, having arrived the night before, were the only visible people, and they were occupied scolding their servants; for in India all Europeans are waited on, and the wives of privates have their cooks and their washer-men. The married soldiers’ families on a long march travelled in large bamboo cages, covered with carpeting to keep out the sun as much as possible, and these cages were put on the common country carts, drawn by bullocks. We had a long line of fifty or sixty carts of married people, and, as they started in advance at about two in the afternoon on the same day as the regiment marched in, a great hush always seemed to fall on the camp as they creaked and groaned off on their way. The fresh early morning is very exhilarating, and the days are never too hot in the cold weather.

One morning was very cold, so my wife and I rode quickly on in front of the battalion. We passed the camels, which were moving steadily along on each side of the well-made Indian highway. We arrived too soon at the camping ground, and our tents were not quite ready, as the servants had not expected us so early; so we got chairs, and sat enjoying the fresh morning air. At length our camels, told off to carry the khansama’s property, arrived. On one of these ‘ships of the desert’ was fastened a hencoop containing some turkeys and fowls. My wife insisted that the poultry should be released at once, which was done, and a huge white turkey rushed madly about, and finally jumped on to my wife’s lap. She received the great bird with kindness, but in a short time exclaimed, in accents of the greatest consternation:—‘Oh, Edward, the turkey has laid an egg in my lap!’ And so it had. How we laughed! That turkey was ever after a great pet, was named Lady Alicia, and travelled with us for many a day, but at length was devoured by a jackal in the hills of Murree.

At Kurnal we found our tents pitched in a pretty spot, under large trees, just outside the walls of the town. But we were carried off by an old friend, Colonel Trench, superintendent of the government stud at Kurnal, to his bungalow. Tent life is very pleasant, but after a long time of it one appreciates the solid comforts of four walls and a roof. The stud was a very interesting sight, everything being in the most perfect order. There were about eight hundred horses altogether, three hundred of them colts. We saw them turned out for exercise in a large field. How they tore about, with manes and tails streaming! Then they formed up, with distended nostrils, to have a look at us, and were off again. Kurnal used to be one of the largest and most favourite stations in India; but it became, from some unknown reason, dreadfully unhealthy. Hundreds of Europeans died there, and it was abandoned as a military station.

We spent Christmas here. Christmas is a season of rejoicing in India to the natives as well as to us. Yellow flowers are profusely used as decorations, and it is the custom for all the principal employés to present ‘dollies’ to their masters, or the heads of departments. As colonel commanding a regiment, I received ‘dollies’ from the kotwal of the regimental bazaar, from the commissariat baker, and many others, and now on the march the chief of the camel-men brought a hill ‘dollie.’ They are almost always of the same shape, that of a large, round, flat basket, with the contents tastefully arranged so that everything is seen at once. Oranges, pomegranates, raisins, sugar, spices, and Cabul grapes, packed up in little boxes, each grape in cotton wool, are the usual gifts. To touch the basket with the right hand, in sign of acceptance, is sufficient, and then the servants get the contents, or, if there is any special delicacy, you appropriate it.

Umballa, a very large station, was our next important halt. Its close vicinity to the hills and Simla makes it very popular. The band of the 94th Regiment came out to meet the 88th. None of us thought then that in a few years that gallant corps would be called the 2nd Battalion Connaught Rangers. We changed our carts and camels at Umballa, and were delayed fifteen days before we got others. We met with the greatest hospitality and kindness, and our time passed pleasantly. One night we were fairly washed out of our tents by a most tremendous storm which suddenly burst over us. The thunder roared, the lightning flashed incessantly, and the heavens descended in a flood. Our tents were ankle deep in water. Daylight showed that the camp was standing in a lake. The men, who on a march have no beds, were badly off; but the greatest sufferers were the married women and children. Their cages had been necessarily removed from the carts that had conveyed them from Delhi, and they were on the ground till we got our new supply of carriages. Poor women, every stitch they possessed was floating in water. The sun, fortunately, came out, and tents and clothes dried; but we moved to another ground.

About three hundred miles from Delhi we halted at Umritsur, celebrated for its golden temple; the walls are of pure white marble, and its roof of copper gilt. It stands in a miniature lake, a hundred and fifty paces square, the water of which, when we were there, was green and stagnant, and in it the Sikhs immerse themselves, that they may be purified from their sins. I think that the Temple of Umritsur looks more imposing in a photograph than in reality. We passed along the marble causeway, guarded on each side with golden balustrades and lamps, and paused at the solid silver door to have straw shoes put over our boots. The inside is richly gilded and decorated, and the marble floor is inlaid with mosaic; but there is a tawdriness in the silken canopy, under which reposes the sacred ‘Grunth,’ the Sikh’s Bible, and in the yellow flowers hung everywhere.

Umritsur has always been noted for its manufacture of shawls and silks, and owing to its situation between Cabul, Delhi, and Cashmere, has driven a great trade.

There was intense excitement one night in consequence of a robber having been caught close to our tent, stark naked, and greased from head to foot. The servants surrounded him, but could not hold him till the bheestee (water-carrier) poured a mussock of water over him and he was rubbed down. There is a regular caste of thieves. The mess one night lost all their copper pots and pans.

On the 23rd of February, 1867, we marched into Rawul Pindee, after a journey which was most successfully accomplished. We were quite sorry the long march was over. The men were in most splendid condition. The usual amount of difficulty in collecting transport going up country had been encountered, but everything had gone right at last. We all had had pleasant meetings with old friends at the various stations we had passed. At several of them my wife and I had stopped for a night or two at a friend’s bungalow, driving on afterwards, and overtaking the regiment, which had always been moving steadily on. So it was with real regret we watched the departure from camp on the last day’s march. The four bullock-carts started with the servants, the goats dragging behind. The wives of the chief men were in marching trim, with tight blue trousers down to their heavily-bangled ankles, and over their heads was a great white square of linen, reaching to their waists; behind them again was the swaying line of camels.

The Rangers had owned a pack of fox-hounds, which had given many a good day’s run in the plains of the North West, and it was to our great dismay we were told, on being ordered to Rawul Pindee, that our pack would be of no use up there. So they were disposed of before we left Cawnpore, and when we saw the broken country we had got into, we felt we had done wisely to sell them. The hot weather was very near when we reached Pindee. We had just time to get comfortably housed and settled when it was upon us.

CHAPTER VII.
THE AMEER OF CABUL.

RAWUL PINDEE—EXPEDITION TO CASHMERE—INDIAN HEAT—VISIT OF THE AMEER OF CABUL—LADY IN A RIDING-HABIT—DEATH OF BISHOP MILMAN—ABSURD STATEMENT—PESHAWUR—CHOKEDARS—NOWSHERA—HORSE-DEALERS—M’KAY—WILD SCENE—MARCH TO CASHMERE—MURREE—FAITHLESS COOLIES—DAYWAL—TERRORS OF MY BEARER.

CHAPTER VII.

Rawul Pindee is one of the most favourite quarters, being so close to the hill station of Murree. Four hours carries one from the breathless heat of the plain to the top of a mountain, with an elevation of seven thousand four hundred and fifty-seven feet.

My wife and I were eager to make an expedition during the leave season into Cashmere. The mountains guarding the Happy Valley had stood out, a grand rampart, clear on the horizon, a great part of our march. Our plans were all arranged. Light tents were bought, and leave was obtained, when cholera made its appearance in the regiment. Of course going away then was out of the question. The married people were sent—to their great discomfort—into camp, and extraordinary precautions were taken to prevent the spread of the disease, the horrors of which we had so lately seen.

When encamped at Agra, under the outer flap of my tent, two unfortunate natives lay down and died during the night, only the canvas walls between them and us. Mercifully, the present outbreak was a slight one. But, when we could get away, there was not time left, during the leave season, for our journey to Cashmere, so we contented ourselves with a visit to Murree, the sanitorium of this district.

No one who has not experienced real hot weather in the plains, can understand what Indian heat is. It means darkness, for one thing, as every ray of light is carefully excluded. In our darkened house at Pindee, with every precaution taken, for a fortnight the thermometer never varied, night and day, from 99°. But, oh, the joy of the first rain! When doors and windows were thrown open, and we once again saw each other!

Rawul Pindee was a very hospitable place. I remember dining with one of the civilians. It was a very grand party. Everything went off charmingly. The soup was hot, the champagne well iced, and the inevitable tinned salmon, with Tartare sauce, was in abundance. As I observed that those who took salad tasted it, and left it alone, I took none. Next day my wife called on our hostess, and found her nearly in tears.

‘Oh, Mrs. Maxwell,’ she exclaimed, in horrified accents, ‘can you believe it? The khansama made the salad with castor oil!’

We were quartered a year at Rawul Pindee, and then received orders to march to Peshawur.

We remained twelve months at Peshawur, and although there was a good deal of fever, yet we did not suffer so much as the 42nd Royal Highlanders, whom we relieved, had done. During the time they were quartered there that unfortunate regiment was decimated by cholera and fever. Not only did they lose many men, but their pipers nearly all succumbed.

The most noteable event which occurred when we were at that station was the visit of the Ameer of Cabul, on his way to Umballa to meet Lord Mayo. The whole division paraded to do him honour, and, as I commanded a brigade, I had a good view of this treacherous man. Certainly his appearance was very noble and soldier-like. He rode with the general and staff in front of our line, mounted on a high-bred Turcoman mare. I was so taken up looking at this perfect animal, that I had no eyes for the rider; but I saw him often afterwards, and my remembrance of Shere Ali is not that of an artful deceiver, but more of a frank, jolly soldier. But at that time he was full of hope that our government would stand by him, and his heart must have beat with pleasure when he looked on the bronzed warriors of Britain as they were in those days. Besides, he must have felt elated when he saw not only the chivalry of India assembled to do him honour, but all the civilians, men and women, crowding to get a sight of him.

My wife rode to the parade, but when she got to the ground the crowd was so great that she dismounted from her nag and got into the howdah on the back of an elephant, which sapient animal knelt down to allow her to ascend the ladder, the only way to get up. As she had begun the morning on horseback, she was dressed in a riding-habit, and had on her head a tall hat. When the parade was over, and the regiments were still formed up, Shere Ali rode away, and, passing the elephant on which my wife was seated, seemed rather perplexed at her dress, and evidently asked for an explanation. But before the Ameer returned to his country he saw many things more astonishing than a lady in a riding-habit.

During our stay at Peshawur, Bishop Milman, who was beloved by everyone, visited the station. The greatest regret was expressed when very soon after his visit to us he was drowned, having fallen into the river when going up a slippery plank which had been placed to enable him to go on board a steamer. My remembrance of this good man is, that he was very stout, had a deep voice, and preached a most impressive sermon on the text ‘Redeem the time.’

I mention all this to show how utterly absurd was the statement made about him by a fraudulent mess-man. A regiment quartered near us invited the bishop to dinner, an invitation which he accepted. It appears that the mess sergeant had been for some time suspected of not being very honest in his charges, and he was watched by one of the mess committee. The day after the bishop had dined at the mess the accounts were overhauled, and the enormous number of twenty glasses of brandy and soda were charged against the mess guests.

‘This is impossible,’ said the officer making the inquiry, ‘the number is too great.’

‘Not at all, sir,’ said the mess sergeant, ‘the bishop alone had fourteen tumblers!’

We passed a very pleasant time at Peshawur, and regretted when the order came for us to move to Nowshera. Peshawur is situated on the River Bara, and is twelve miles from the Khyber Pass. The cantonments are on a ridge at a higher elevation than the town, which is very unhealthy. Cholera and fever commit great havoc there, and yet it is a fair place to look upon, with its gardens and green trees, and curiously-shaped bungalows built of mud, as earthquakes are very common during the cold weather, and the houses formed of mud consolidated in a wooden frame are less dangerous than stone-built edifices.

Peshawur cantonments suffer not only from fever, but from the occasional inroads of robbers, who are very clever at their trade, and steal horses in a wonderful manner. To save himself from their attacks, a kind of black-mail is paid by every person who is head of a house, and who desires security. This monthly tax is given to men called ‘chokedars,’ and the recipients of the money belong to the hill tribes that guard the Khyber Pass; magnificent men and true as steel—so long as you pay them. They dress in a most picturesque costume, and are armed with several weapons, one of which is generally a blunderbuss. They march round your house all night, shouting at intervals, ‘Khu-bardar!’ (take care), a signal to their brother robbers that the sahib round whose house they are watching has paid the black-mail. The man in my service, a very handsome fellow, was always at his post; and I admired my brigand very much. One day he asked for leave, and, after bringing a friend of his to take his duty in his absence, he entered into a long story to my bearer, who, when I asked him why my chokedar wished leave, gave me the information desired in the following few words: ‘Your highness,’ said the bearer, with his hands clasped, ‘this man wishes to go and murder his mother.’ Of course, on learning that he was going on such a praiseworthy errand, I gave him his congê, and I never saw him again.

We were much commiserated when our turn for being quartered at Nowshera came round; but somehow we got on very well. Polo became a great institution, and we fraternised well with the cavalry and native regiments we found there. The Guides, at Murdan, a march across the river from Nowshera, always made any of us who visited them more than welcome. So, what with excursions to Peshawur, and occasional visits of friends passing up and down the Grand Trunk road, time passed pleasantly enough.

Nowshera is one of the hottest stations in the Punjaub—surrounded as it is by sandy hills—and when we first went to it there were no trees. Many hundreds were planted under my rule, and I am always gratified to hear that there is quite an avenue now from the barracks to the church. Camels are the great enemies of trees. Carefully as the young growth may be guarded, a long neck suddenly protrudes from the line of moving animals, and the top of a tree is nipped off, and its future beauty spoiled. But camels are not the only enemies trees may have; for, at my old home at Monreith, in Scotland, when this century was young, my father was possessed of many race-horses, one of which won the Leger. The stables are at some distance from the house, and my grandfather had planted several trees, which have grown up with forked tops. This unfortunate disfigurement was caused by the jockeys, on their way to the stables, flicking off the tops of the young trees with their riding whips; at least, so the old people at home say.