My Experiences in Manipur
and
the Naga Hills
Graham Photo, Leamington Spa. Walker & Boutall, Ph. Sc.
Major General Sir James Johnstone, K.C.S.I.
My Experiences
in
Manipur and the Naga Hills
By the late
Major-General Sir James Johnstone
K.C.S.I.
With an introductory memoir
Illustrated
London
Sampson Low, Marston and Company Limited
St. Dunstan’s House
Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, E.C.
1896
London:
Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Limited,
Stamford Street and Charing Cross.
I DEDICATE
THESE PAGES TO THE MEMORY OF
My Wife,
WHO SHARED IN MANY OF MY LABOURS AND ANXIETIES
IN MANIPUR, AND THE NAGA HILLS,
AND WHOSE SPIRIT INSPIRED ME IN MY LAST ENTERPRISE,
AND WHO, HAD SHE LIVED,
WOULD HAVE WRITTEN A BETTER RECORD OF
OUR EXPERIENCES THAN I HAVE
BEEN ABLE TO DO.
Author’s Preface.
When I first brought my wife out to India in 1873, I was struck by the comments she made on things which had so long been part of my daily life. I had almost ceased to observe them. Every day she noted something new, and her diary was so interesting that I advised her to write a book on her “First Impressions of India,” and she meant to do so, but never had time. Had she lived, this would have been a pleasure to her, but it was otherwise ordained. I feel now that I am in some way carrying out her wishes, by attempting a description of our life in India, though I am fully sensible that I cannot hope to achieve the pleasant chatty style in which she excelled.
I have also striven to give a fair record of the events with which I was connected; and perhaps, as they include a description of a state of things that has passed away for ever, they may not be devoid of interest. I am one of those old-fashioned Anglo-Indians who still believe in personal government, a system by which we gained India, solidified our rule, and made ourselves fairly acceptable to the people whom we govern. I believe the machine-like system which we have introduced and are endeavouring to force into every corner of India, till all personal influence is killed out, to be ill-adapted to the requirements of these Oriental races, and blighting in its effects. Not one native chief has adopted it in its integrity, which is in itself a fair argument that it is distasteful to the native mind; and we may be assured that if we evacuated India to-morrow, personal rule would again make itself felt throughout the length and breadth of the land, and grow stronger every day. I have always striven to be a reformer, but a reformer building on the solid foundations that we already find everywhere in India. Wherever you go, if there is a semblance of native rule left, you find a system admirably adapted to the needs of the population, though very often grown over with abuses. Clear away these abuses, and add a little in the way of modern progress, but always building on the foundation you find ready to hand, and you have a system acceptable to all.
We are wonderfully timid in sweeping away real abuses, for fear of hurting the feelings of the people; at the same time we weigh them down with unnecessary, oppressive, and worrying forms, and deluge the country with paper returns, never realising that these cause far more annoyance than would be felt at our making some radical change in a matter which, after all, affects only a minority. Take, for instance, the case of suttee, or widow-burning. It was argued for years that we could not put it down without causing a rebellion. What are the facts? A governor-general, blessed with moral courage in a great degree, determined to abolish the barbarous custom, and his edict was obeyed without a murmur. So it has been in many other cases, and so it will be wherever we have the courage to do the right thing. An unpopular tax would cause more real dissatisfaction than any interference with bad old customs, only adhered to from innate conservatism. The great principle on which to act is to do what is right, and what commends itself to common sense, and to try and carry the people with you. Do not let us have more mystery than is necessary; telling the plain truth is the best course; vacillation is fatal; the strongest officer is generally the most popular, and is remembered by the people long after he is dead and gone.
Personal rule is doomed, and men born to be personal rulers and a blessing to the governed, are now harassed by the authorities till they give up in despair, and swim with the stream.
The machine system did not gain India, and will not keep it for us; we must go back to a better system, or be prepared to relax our grasp, and give up the grandest work any nation ever undertook—the regeneration of an empire!
The House of Commons has to answer for much. No Indian administration is safe from the interference of theorists. To-day it is opium that is attacked by self-righteous individuals, who see in the usual, and in most cases harmless, stimulant of millions, a crying evil; while they view with apparent complacency the expenditure of £120,000,000 per annum on intoxicating liquors in England, and long columns in almost every newspaper recording brutal outrages on helpless women and children as the result.
Then the military administration is attacked, and in pursuance of another chimera, an iniquitous bill is forced on the Government of India calculated to produce results, which will probably sap the efficiency of our army at a critical moment. So it goes on, and it is hardly to be wondered at that the authorities in India give up resistance in sheer disgust, knowing all the while that, as the French say, le deluge must come after them.
It may be said, “What has all this to do with Manipur and the Naga Hills?” Nothing perhaps directly, but indirectly a great deal. The system which I decry carries its evil influence everywhere, and Manipur has suffered from it. I describe the Naga Hills and Manipur as they were in old days. I strove hard for years to hold the floods back from this little State and to preserve it intact, while doing all I could to introduce reforms. Now the floods have overwhelmed it, and if it rises again above them it will not be the Manipur that I knew and loved. May it, in spite of my doubts and fears, be a better Manipur.
Contents
Page
[Introduction] xix
Arrival in India—Hospitable friends—The Lieut.-Governor—Journey to the Naga Hills—Nigriting—Golaghat—A panther reminiscence—Hot springs—A village dance—Dimapur—My new abode 1
Samagudting—Unhealthy quarters—A callous widower—Want of water—Inhabitants of the Naga Hills—Captain Butler—Other officials—Our life in the wilds—A tiger carries off the postman—An Indian forest—Encouragement 12
Historical events connected with Manipur and the Naga Hills—Different tribes—Their religion—Food and customs 22
Value of keeping a promise—Episode of Sallajee—Protection given to small villages, and the large one defied—“Thorough” Government of India’s views—A plea for Christian education in the Naga Hills 37
Visit Dimapur—A terrible storm—Cultivation—Aggression by Konoma—My ultimatum—Konoma submits—Birth of a son—Forest flowers—A fever patient—Proposed change of station—Leave Naga Hills—March through the forest—Depredation by tigers—Calcutta—Return to England 45
Return to India—Attached to Foreign Office—Imperial assemblage at Delhi—Almorah—Appointed to Manipur—Journey to Shillong—Cherra Poojee—Colonel McCulloch—Question of ceremony 54
Start for Manipur—March over the hills—Lovely scenery—View of the valley—State reception—The Residency—Visitors 60
Visit the Maharajah—His ministers—Former revolutions—Thangal Major 69
Manipur—Early history—Our connection with it—Ghumbeer Singh—Burmese war 78
Ghumbeer Singh and our treatment of him—Nur Singh and attempt on his life—McCulloch—His wisdom and generosity—My establishment—Settlement of frontier dispute 88
My early days in Manipur—The capital—The inhabitants—Good qualities of Manipuris—Origin of valley of Manipur—Expedition to the Naga Hills—Lovely scenery—Attack on Kongal Tannah by Burmese—Return from Naga Hills—Visit Kongal Tannah 95
Discussions as to new Residency—Its completion—Annual boat-races—Kang-joop-kool—Daily work—Dealings with the Durbar 104
Violent conduct of Prince Koireng—A rebuke—Service payment—Advantages of Manipuri system—Customs duties—Slavery—Releasing slaves—Chowbas’ fidelity—Sepoy’s kindness to children—Visit to the Yoma range 112
An old acquaintance—Monetary crisis—A cure for breaking crockery—Rumour of human sacrifices—Improved postal system—Apricots—Mulberries—A snake story—Search after treasure—Another snake story—Visit to Calcutta—Athletics—Ball practice—A near shave 122
Spring in Manipur—Visit Kombang—Manipuri orderlies—Parade of the Maharajah’s Guards—Birth of a daughter—An evening walk in the capital—Polo—Visit to Cachar 131
Punishment of female criminals—A man saved from execution—A Kuki executed—Old customs abolished—Anecdote of Ghumbeer Singh—The Manipuri army—Effort to re-organise Manipur Levy—System of rewards—“Nothing for nothing”—An English school—Hindoo festivals—Rainbows—View from Kang-joop-kool 138
Mr. Damant and the Naga Hills—Rumours on which I act—News of revolt in Naga Hills and Mr. Damant’s murder—Maharajah’s loyalty—March to the relief of Kohima—Relief of Kohima—Incidents of siege—Heroism of ladies—A noble defence 147
Restoring order and confidence—Arrival of Major Evans—Arrival of Major Williamson—Keeping open communication—Attack on Phesama—Visit to Manipur—General Nation arrives—Join him at Suchema—Prepare to attack Konoma—Assault of Konoma 161
Konoma evacuated—Journey to Suchema for provisions and ammunition, and return—We march to Suchema with General—Visit Manipur—Very ill—Meet Sir Steuart Bayley in Cachar—His visit to Manipur—Grand reception—Star of India—Chussad attack on Chingsow—March to Kohima and back—Reflections on Maharajah’s services—Naga Hills campaign overshadowed by Afghan war 175
Visit Chingsow to investigate Chussad outrage—Interesting country—Rhododendrons—Splendid forest—Chingsow and the murders—Chattik—March back across the hills 182
Saving a criminal from execution—Konoma men visit me—A terrible earthquake—Destruction wrought in the capital—Illness of the Maharajah—Question as to the succession—Arrival of the Queen’s warrant—Reception by the Maharajah—The Burmese question 190
March to Mao and improvement of the road—Lieutenant Raban—Constant troubles with Burmah—Visit to Mr. Elliott at Kohima—A tiger hunt made easy—A perilous adventure—Rose bushes—Brutal conduct of Prince Koireng—We leave Manipur for England 198
Return to Manipur—Revolution in my absence—Arrangements for boundary—Survey and settlement—Start for Kongal—Burmese will not act—We settle boundary—Report to Government—Return to England 208
Return to India—Visit to Shillong—Manipur again—Cordial reception—Trouble with Thangal Major—New arts introduced 216
A friend in need—Tour round the valley—Meet the Chief Commissioner—March to Cachar—Tour through the Tankhool country—Metomi Saraméttie—Somrah—Terrace cultivators—A dislocation—Old quarters at Kongal Tannah—Return to the valley—A sad parting 223
More trouble with Thangal Major—Tit-for-tat—Visit to the Kubo valley—A new Aya Pooiel—Journey to Shillong—War is declared—A message to Kendat to the Bombay-Burmah Corporation agents—Anxiety as to their fate—March to Mao 236
News from Kendat—Mr. Morgan and his people safe—I determine to march to Moreh Tannah—March to Kendat—Arrive in time to save the Bombay-Burmah Corporation Agents—Visit of the Woon—Visit to the Woon 244
People fairly friendly—Crucifixion—Carelessness of Manipuris—I cross the Chindwin—Recross the Chindwin—Collect provisions—Erect stockades and fortify our position—Revolt at Kendat—We assume the offensive—Capture boats and small stockades—Revolt put down—Woon and Ruckstuhl rescued—Steamers arrive and leave 251
Mischief done by departure of steamers—Determine to establish the Woon at Tamu—The country quieting down—Recovery of mails—Letter from the Viceroy—Arrive at Manipur—Bad news—I return to Tamu—Night march to Pot-thâ—An engagement—Wounded—Return to Manipur—Farewell—Leave for England 260
Conclusion.
The events of 1890–1 271
[Index] 284
Introductory Memoir.
These experiences were written in brief intervals of leisure, during the last few months of the author’s busy life, which was brought to a sudden close before they were finally revised. Only last March when his nearest relations met at Fulford Hall to take leave of the eldest son of the house, before he sailed for India, the manuscript was still incomplete, and Sir James read some part of it aloud. His health had suffered greatly from over-fatigue in the unhealthy parts of India, in which his lot had been chiefly cast, but it was now quite restored and a prolonged period of usefulness seemed before him.
Improvements on the farms on his estate, a church within reach of his cottagers, to be built as a memorial to his late wife, and the hope of being once more employed abroad, probably as a colonial governor, were all plans for the immediate future, while the present was occupied with the magisterial and other business (including lectures on history in village institutes), which fill up so much of an English country gentleman’s life. He had saved nothing in India. What the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal wrote in 1872 of his early work at Keonjhur, applied to everything else he subsequently undertook: “Captain Johnstone’s schools, twenty in number, continue to flourish, attracting an average attendance of 665 children. Captain Johnstone’s efforts to improve the crops and cattle of Keonjhur have before been remarked by the Lieutenant-Governor. His sacrifices for this end and for his charge generally, are, His Honour believes, almost unique.”[1] But in 1881 by the death of his late father’s elder brother, he inherited the Fulford estate on the boundaries of Worcestershire and Warwickshire, as well as Dunsley Manor in Staffordshire. The old Hall at Fulford, a strongly built, black and white, half-timbered erection of some centuries back, had been pulled down a few years before, and Sir James built the present house close to the old site. It was here that he was brought back in a dying state on June 13th, 1895, about 10 A.M., after riding out of the grounds only ten minutes before, full of life and energy. No one witnessed what occurred; he was a splendid horseman, but there was evidence that the horse, always inclined to be restive, had taken fright on passing a cottager’s gate and tried to turn back, and that, as its master’s whip was still firmly grasped in his hand, there had been a struggle.
He was engaged to assist the next day at the annual meeting of the Conservative and Unionist Association at Stratford-on-Avon. The Marquis of Hertford, who presided, when announcing the catastrophe in very feeling terms, spoke of the excellent work that Sir James Johnstone had done for the Unionist cause in Warwickshire. At Wythall Church (of which he was warden) the Vicar alluded, the following Sunday, to “the striking example he had set of a devout and attentive worshipper.”
A retired official who had been acquainted with him in India for over thirty years, wrote on the same occasion to Captain Charles Johnstone, R.N.: “Your brother was a type of character not at all common, high-principled, fearless, just, with an overwhelming sense of duty, and restless spirit of adventure. It is by characters of his type, that our great empire has been created, and it is only if such types continue that we may look forward and hope that it will be maintained and extended.”
Although the family from which Sir James Johnstone sprang is of Scottish origin, his own branch of it had lived in Worcestershire and Warwickshire for nearly a century and a half. “It has taken a prominent part in the social and public life of the Midlands, and has produced several eminent physicians.”[2] He was the eleventh in direct male descent from William Johnstone of Graitney, who received a charter of the barony of Newbie for “distinguished services” to the Scottish crown in 1541. A remnant of the old Scottish estates was inherited by his great-grandfather, Dr. James Johnstone, who died at Worcester in 1802, and who, being the fourth son of his parents, had left Annandale at the age of twenty-one to settle in Worcestershire as a physician, but who always kept up his relations with Scotland, and meant to return there in his old age. His anxiety to secure this estate—Galabank—in the male line, really defeated his purpose; for he bequeathed it to his then unmarried younger son, the late Dr. John Johnstone, F.R.S., whose daughter now possesses it, to the exclusion of his elder sons who seemed likely to leave nothing but daughters. One of these elder sons was Sir James’s grandfather, the late Dr. Edward Johnstone of Edgbaston Hall, who had married the heiress of Fulford, but was left a widower in 1800. Dr. Edward Johnstone was remarried in 1802 to Miss Pearson of Tettenhall, and of their two sons, the younger, James, born in 1806, practised for many years as a physician, and was President of the British Medical Association when it met in Birmingham in 1856. His eldest son, the subject of this notice, was born in a house now pulled down in the Old Square, Birmingham, on February 9th, 1841. Brought up in the midst of the large family of brothers and sisters, whose childhood was passed between their home in the Old Square and their grandfather’s residence at Edgbaston Hall, where they spent the summer and autumn: he used also to look back with particular pleasure on his visits to his maternal grandfather’s country house, where he first mounted a pony. His mother was his instructor, except occasional lessons from the Rev. T. Price, till at the age of nine he entered King Edward’s Classical School, of which his father was a governor. The head master at that time (1850), was the Rev. (now Archdeacon) E. H. Gifford, D.D., and in the school list for 1852, Johnstone senior is placed next in the same class to Mackenzie (now Sir Alex.), the present Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal.
In 1855, young James Johnstone went to a military college in Paris, which was swept away before 1870, with a great part of the older portion of the city. After a year and a half in Paris he was transferred to the Royal Naval and Military Academy, Gosport, and a few months later qualified for one of the last cadetships given under the old East India Company. Without delay he proceeded to India, which was at that period distracted by the Indian Mutiny, so that his regiment the 68th Bengal Native Infantry, consisted only of officers attached to different European regiments, or acting in a civil capacity. With the 73rd (Queen’s Regiment) he marched through the country, and was actively employed in the suppression of the insurgents, after which he was stationed for some time in Assam where he also saw active service. There, in 1862, he met with the accident he alludes to on pp. 3 and 20. It came in the course of his duty, as the population of a village which had been disarmed had sent to the nearest military post to ask for assistance against a tiger (panther), causing destruction in the neighbourhood; but he was very much hurt, and the weakening effects of this accident, seem to have predisposed him to attacks of the malaria fever of the district, from which he frequently suffered afterwards.
His next post was at Keonjhur, where there had been an outbreak against the Rajah by some of the hill-tribes and the chief insurgent had been executed. Lieutenant Johnstone was appointed special assistant to the superintendent of the Tributary Mehals at Cuttack, in whose official district Keonjhur lies. The Superintendent wrote to the Lieutenant-Governor (Sir William Grey) of Bengal in 1869: “Captain Johnstone has acquired their full confidence, and hopes very shortly to be able to dispense with the greater part of the Special Police Force posted at Keonjhur. He appears to take very great interest in his work, and is sanguine of success.” The same official when enclosing Captain Johnstone’s first report, wrote: “It contains much interesting matter regarding the people, and shows that he has taken great pains in bringing them into the present peaceable and apparently loyal condition,” and a little further on, when describing an interview he had with the Rajah: “From the manner in which he spoke of Captain Johnstone, I was exceedingly glad to find that the most good feeling exists between them.” He also adds, apropos of a recommendation that the Government should pay half the expense of the special commission instead of charging it all on the native state: “Nearly one half of Captain Johnstone’s time has been occupied in Khedda (catching wild elephants) operations, which have been successful and profitable to Government, and totally unconnected with that officer’s duty in Keonjhur.”[3]
A year later the superintendent (T. E. Ravenshaw, Esq.) reports: “Captain Johnstone, with his usual liberality and tact, has clothed two thousand naked savages, and has succeeded in inducing them to wear the garments;” and again, “Captain Johnstone’s success in establishing schools has been most marked, and there are now nine hundred children receiving a rudimentary education.... Captain Johnstone has very correctly estimated the political importance of education and enlightenment among the hill people, and it is evident that he has worked most judiciously and successfully in this direction.” And again: “In the matter of improvement of breed of cattle, Captain Johnstone has, at his own expense, formed a valuable herd of sixty cows and several young bulls ready to extend the experiment.... Captain Johnstone’s experiments on rice and flax cultivation have been very successful” (two years later this is attributed to his having superintended them himself). The official report sums up, “Of Captain Johnstone I cannot speak too highly; his management has been efficient, and he has exercised careful and constant supervision over the Rajah and his estate, in a manner which has resulted in material improvement to both.”
Subsequently, when Captain Johnstone was on leave in England, the Keonjhur despatches show that he sent directions that the increase of his herd of cattle should be distributed gratis among the natives. They were at first afraid to accept them, hardly believing in the gift.
“Keonjhur,” says the Government report of India for 1870–1, “continues under the able administration of Captain Johnstone, who, it will be remembered, was mainly instrumental in restoring the country to quiet three years ago.”
Captain Johnstone was too good a classic not to remember the Roman method of conquering and subduing a province; and as far as funds would permit, he opened out roads and cleared away jungle. But he suffered again from the malaria so prevalent in the forest districts of India, and took three months’ furlough in 1871, which meant just one month in England. Although he had lost his father in May, 1869, and his absence from home that year gave him some extra legal expense, he would not quit his work till he could leave it in a satisfactory state; yet the Lieut.-Governor of Bengal (Sir George Campbell) twice referred to this furlough as being “most unfortunate,” particularly as it had to be repeated within a few months. The superintendent wrote from Cuttack in his yearly report to the Lieut.-Governor: “Captain Johnstone’s serious and alarming illness necessitated his taking sick leave to England in August, 1871. He had only a short time previously returned from furlough, and with health half restored, over-tasked his strength in carrying out elephant Khedda work in the deadly jungles of Moburdhunj.”
In the spring of 1872, Captain Johnstone was married to Emma Mary Lloyd, with whose family his own had a hereditary friendship of three generations. Her father was at that time M.P. for Plymouth, and living at Moor Hall in Warwickshire. Their first child, James, died of bronchitis when six months old, and they returned to India a short time afterwards, at which point the experiences begin. Their second child, Richard, was born at Samagudting, and is now a junior officer in the battalion of the 60th King’s Own Royal Rifles, quartered in India. The third son, Edward, was born at Dunsley Manor, and two younger children in Manipur.
Manipur, to which Colonel Johnstone was appointed in 1877, was called by one of the Indian secretaries the Cinderella among political agencies. “They’ll never,” he said, “get a good man to take it.” “Well,” was the reply, “a good man has taken it now.” The loneliness, the surrounding savages, and the ill-feeling excited by the Kubo valley (which so late as 1852 is placed in Manipur, in maps published in Calcutta) having been made over to Burmah, were among the reasons of its unpopularity. Colonel Johnstone’s predecessor, Captain Durand (now Sir Edward) draws a very glaring picture in his official report for 1877, of the Maharajah’s misgovernment; the wretched condition of the people, and the most unpleasant position of the Political Agent, whom he described as “in fact a British officer under Manipur surveillance.... He is surrounded by spies.... If the Maharajah is not pleased with the Political Agent he cannot get anything—he is ostracised. From bad coarse black atta, which the Maharajah sells him as a favour, to the dhoby who washes his clothes, and the Nagas who work in his garden, he cannot purchase anything.” Yet, well knowing all this, Colonel Johnstone readily accepted the post, confident that with his great knowledge of Eastern languages, and of Eastern customs and modes of thought, he should be able to bring about a better state of things, both as regarded the oppressed inhabitants and the permanent influence of the representative of the British Government. Whether this confidence was justified, the following pages will show.
[1] Resolution. Political Department, No. 87, 1872.
[2] Birmingham Daily Post, June 15, 1895.
[3] Printed official reports.
My Experiences in Manipur and the Naga Hills.
Chapter I.
Arrival in India—Hospitable friends—The Lieutenant-Governor—Journey to the Naga Hills—Nigriting—Golaghat—A Panther reminiscence—Hot springs—A village dance—Dimapur—My new abode.
I left England with my wife on November 13th, 1873, and after an uneventful voyage, reached Bombay, December 9th. We proceeded at once to Calcutta, where some of my old servants joined me, including two bearers, Seewa and Keptie, wild Bhooyas from the Cuttack Tributary Mehals, whom I had trained, and who had been with me for years in all my wanderings, in that wild territory. Thanks to the kindness of my friends the Bernards (now Sir C. and Lady Bernard), we spent only a day at an hotel, and remained under their hospitable roof till we left Calcutta.
My old appointment in Keonjhur had been abolished, and I had to wait till another was open to me. I had several interviews on the subject with the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal, Sir G. Campbell. Finally it was decided that I should go to Assam (then about to be made into a Chief Commissionership) and act as Political Agent of the Naga Hills, while the permanent official—Captain Butler—was away in the Interior, and subsequently on leave. I knew a large part of the district well, as one of the most malarious in India, and when asked if I would take the appointment, said, “Yes, I have no objection, but just hint to the Lieutenant-Governor that unless he wants to kill me off, it may be better policy to send me elsewhere, as the Medical Board in London said, I must not go to a malarious district, after the experience I have had of it in Keonjhur.” The Secretary conveyed my hint, and when I next saw him, said, “The Lieutenant-Governor says, that is all stuff and nonsense.” Later on Sir G. Campbell asked if my wife would go with me. I quietly replied that she would go anywhere with me.
Finally, on December 30th, we left Calcutta, and after a night in the train, embarked in one of the I. G. S. N. Co.’s steamers at Goalundo, for Nigriting on the Burrhampooter, where we had to land for the Naga Hills. The steamers of those days, were not like the well-appointed mail boats now in use. The voyage was long, the steamers uncomfortable, and the company on board anything but desirable. All the same, the days passed pleasantly, while we slowly wended our way up the mighty river, amid lovely and interesting scenery all new to my wife, to whom I pointed out the different historic spots as they came in view.
We halted at Gowhatty for the night, and early in the morning I swam across the river for the second time in my life, a distance of about three miles, as the current carried me in a slanting direction.
At last we reached Nigriting, and were landed on a dry sandbank five or six miles from the celebrated tea gardens of that name, and the nearest habitations. Fortunately, I had brought a tent and all things needful for a march; and my servants, well accustomed to camp life, soon pitched it and made us comfortable, and my wife was charmed with her first experience. We had a message of welcome from Mr. Boyle, of Nigriting Factory, and the next day went to his house in canoes, whence we set out for Golaghat.
It was to Nigriting that I was carried for change of air nearly twelve years before, when, in April, 1862, I was desperately wounded in an encounter with a large panther near Golaghat, where I had been stationed. I then lived for a week or so in a grass hut on a high bank, and the fresh air made my obstinate wounds begin to heal. Thus it happened that all the people knew me well, and I was long remembered by the name of “Baghé Khooah” literally the “tiger eaten,” a name which I found was still familiar to every one. Loading our things on elephants, and having a pony for my wife, and a dandy (hill litter) in case she grew tired, we set off for Golaghat, and had a picnic luncheon on the way. How delightful are our first experiences of marching in India, even when we have, as in this case, to put up with some discomfort; the cool, crisp air in the morning; the good appetite that a ten-mile walk or ride gives; the feeling that breakfast has been earned, and finally breakfast itself; and such a good one. Where indeed but in India could we have a first-rate meal of three or four courses, and every dish hot, with no better appliances in the shape of a fireplace, than two or three clods of earth? Often have I had a dinner fit for a king, when heavy rain had been falling for hours, and there was no shelter for my men, but a tree with a sheet thrown over a branch.
We breakfasted at a place called “Char Alleé” and the march being long (nearly twenty miles), the sun was low long before reaching Golaghat. As we passed some road coolies, I began a conversation with the old Tekla (overseer) in charge, and asked him if he could get me a few oranges. He said, “Oh no, they are all over.” He then asked me how I came to speak Assamese so well. I said, “I have been in Assam before.” He said, “Oh yes, there have been many sahibs in my time,” and he named several; “and then long ago there was a ‘Baghé Khooah’ sahib, I wonder where he is now?” I looked at him and said, “Ami Baghé Khooah” (I am the Baghé Khooah). The old man gazed equally hard at me for a moment and then ran in front of me and made a most profound obeisance. Having done this, he smilingly said, “I think I can find you some oranges after all,” and at once ran off, and brought me some for which he refused to take anything. The good old man walked about a mile farther before he wished me good-bye; and my wife and I went on, greatly pleased to find that I was so well remembered.
We did not get to Golaghat till long after dark, and pitched our tent on the site of the lines of my old detachment, which I had commanded twelve years before. What a change! Trees that I had remembered as small, had grown large, and some that were planted since I left, already a fair size.
In the morning we received a perfect ovation. People who had known me before, crowded to see me and pay their respects, many of them bringing their children born since I had left. All this was pleasant enough and greatly delighted my wife, but we had to proceed on our way, and it is always difficult to get one’s followers to move from a civilised place, where there is a bazaar, into the jungle, and henceforth our road lay through jungle, the Nambor forest beginning about five miles from Golaghat. At last coolies to carry my wife arrived, and I sent her on in her “dandy” with her ayah, charging the bearers to wait for me at a village I well knew, called “Sipahee Hoikeeah.” The men replied, “Hoi Deota” (Yes, deity[1]) and started. The elephants were a great difficulty, and it was some hours before I could get off, and even then some had not arrived. However, off I started, and hurried on to “Sipahee Hoikeeah” so as not to keep my wife waiting, but when I reached the spot, I found to my amazement that the village had ceased to exist, having, as I subsequently learned, been abandoned for fear of the Nagas. I hurried on in much anxiety, as my wife did not speak Hindoostani, and neither ayah nor bearers spoke English. At last I caught them up at the Nambor hot springs, called by natives the “Noonpoong” where we were to halt.
Camping Out.
[Page 6.
The Noonpoong is situated in a lovely spot amidst fine forest. The hot water springs out of the ground, at a temperature of 112 degrees and fills a small pool. It is similar in taste to the waters of Aix-la-Chapelle, and is highly efficacious in skin diseases, being resorted to even for the cure of severe leech bites, which are easily obtained from the land leech infesting all the forests of Assam. Fortunately some of our cooking things, with chairs and a table arrived, also a mattress, but no bed and no tent. We waited till 9 P.M., and finding that no more elephants came up, I made up a bed for my wife on the ground under a table, to shelter her from the dew, but while sitting by the camp fire for a last warm, we heard the noise of an elephant, and saw one emerging from the forest. Fortunately he carried the tent which was quickly pitched, and we passed a comfortable night.
The hot springs are not the only attraction of the neighbourhood, as about two miles off in the forest, there is a very pretty waterfall, not high, but the volume of water is considerable, and it comes down with a thundering sound heard for some distance. The natives call it the “phutta hil,” literally “rent rock.” The Nambor forest is noted for its Nahor or Nagessur trees (Mesua Ferma) a handsome tree, the heart of which is a fine red wood, very hard and very heavy, and quite impervious to the attacks of white ants. Europeans call it the iron wood of Assam. It is very plentiful in parts of the forest between the Noonpoong and Golaghat, and also grows in the lowlands of Manipur.
The next morning we set out for Borpathar, a village with a fine sheet of cultivation on the banks of the Dunseree, and took up our quarters in the old blockhouse, which had been converted into a comfortable rest house. Here again we received a perfect ovation, the people, headed by my old friend Hova Ram, now promoted to a Mouzadar, coming in a body, with fruit and eggs, etc., to pay their respects. The population had sadly diminished since my early days, the people having in many cases fled the country for fear of Naga raids.
The march having been a short one, all our baggage had time to come up. In the evening the girls of the village entertained us with one of their national dances, a very pretty and interesting sight. After a good night’s rest we again started, our march lying through the noble forest, where buttressed trees formed an arch over the road, showing plainly that Gothic architecture was an adaptation from nature. I had never marched along the road since it was cleared; but I was there in 1862, in pursuit of some Naga raiders, when it would have been impassable, but for elephant and rhinoceros tracks. Even then I was struck by its great beauty, and now it was a fairly good cold weather track.
We halted at Deo Panee, then at Hurreo Jan, and Nowkatta, and on the fourth day reached Dimapur, where we found a comfortable rest house, on the banks of a fine tank about two hundred yards square. This, with many others near it, spoke of days of civilisation that had long since passed away, before the Naga drove the Cacharee from the hills he now inhabits, and from the rich valley of the Dunseree. Near Dimapur we passed a Meekir hut built on posts ten or twelve feet high, and with a notched log resting against it, at an angle of about seventy degrees by way of a staircase, up which a dog ran like a squirrel at our approach. The Meekirs occupy some low hill ranges between the Naga hills and the Burrhampooter.
The country round Dimapur is exceedingly rich, and everywhere bears the marks of having been thickly populated. It is well supplied with artificial square tanks, some much larger than the one already referred to, and on the opposite bank of the river we crossed to reach our halting place, are the remains of an old fortified city. Mounds containing broken pottery made with the wheel, abound, though the neighbouring tribes have forgotten its use. At Dimapur, in those days, there were three or four Government elephants and a few shops kept by “Khyahs,” an enterprising race of merchants from Western India.
The ruined city is worth describing. It was surrounded originally by solid brick walls twelve feet in height and six in thickness, the bricks admirably made and burned. The walls enclosed a space seven hundred yards square; it was entered by a Gothic archway, and not far off had a gap in the wall, said to have been made for cattle to enter by. Inside were tanks, some lined with brick walls, and with brick steps leading to the water. Though I carefully explored the interior, I never saw any other traces of brickwork, except perhaps a platform; but I found one or two sacrificial stones, for offerings of flowers, water and oil. One corner of the surrounding wall had been cut away by the river. The enclosure is covered with forest. Near the gateway are some huge monoliths, one eighteen feet in height. All are covered with sculpture, and some have deep grooves cut in the top, as if to receive beams. It is difficult to conjecture what they were brought there for, and how they were transported, as the nearest rocks from which they could have been cut, are at least ten miles away. If the Assam-Bengal Railway passes near Dimapur as is, I believe, arranged, this interesting old city wall will probably be used as a quarry for railway purposes, and soon none of it will remain. Alas, for Vandalism!
History tells us little about the origin of Dimapur, but probably it was once a centre of Cacharee civilisation, and as the Angami Nagas advanced, the city wall was built, so as to afford a place of refuge against sudden raids. It is a strange sight to see the relics of a forgotten civilisation, in the midst of a pathless forest.
On our march up, we frequently came upon the windings of the river Dunseree. At Nowkatta it runs parallel for a time with the road, and we took our evening walk on its dry sandbanks, finding many recent traces of tigers and wild elephants. From that time till we finally left the hills, the roar of tigers and the trumpeting of elephants were such common sounds, that we ceased to pay attention to them, and my wife, though naturally timid, became devoted to the wild solitude of our life.
At Dimapur we enjoyed the luxury of fresh milk, which, of course, the forest did not supply. The night was delightfully cold, and the next morning crisp and invigorating, and we set off at an early hour, for our last march into Samagudting.
For the first eight miles our road was through a level forest country, with the exception of a piece of low-lying grass land, and at a place called Nichu Guard the ascent of the hill commenced. This entrance of the gorge through which the Diphoo Panee river enters the low lands is very beautiful, the stream rushing out from the hills over a pebbly bottom, and it was a favourite encamping ground for us in our later marches. Now, we had not time to halt, so hurried on. The road up the hill was in fair condition for men and elephants, but did not admit of wheeled traffic, had there been any carts to use. We accomplished the ascent, a distance of four miles, in about two hours, obtaining several lovely views of the boundless forest, on our way.
The vegetation on the hill itself had been much injured by the abominable practice hillmen have, of clearing a fresh space every two or three years, and deserting it for another, when the soil has been exhausted. This never gives it time to recover. At last we reached the summit, and took possession of the Political Agent’s house, a large bungalow, built of grass and bamboo, the roof being supported by wooden posts, on the highest point of the hill. A glance showed me that the posts were nearly eaten through by white ants, and that the first high wind would level it with the ground. It had been built by a man who never intended to stay, and who only wanted it to last his time.
Later in the day, I took over the charge from Mr. Coombs, who was acting till my arrival, and thus became, for the time, chief of the district. My staff consisted of Mr. Needham, Assistant Political Agent, and Mr. Cooper, in medical charge, the usual office establishment, and one hundred and fifty military police. Most of these, together with Captain Butler, for whom I was acting, were away in the Interior with a survey party. Mr. Coombs left in a day or two, and I then occupied his bungalow lower down the hill, and in a more exposed position, so as to allow of the larger house being rebuilt. Besides the Government establishment, we had a fair-sized Naga village on the hill, and just below the Political Agent’s house. These people had long been friendly to us, and were willing, for a large recompense, to do all sorts of odd jobs, being entirely free from the caste prejudices of our Hindoo and degenerate Mussulman fellow-subjects.
[1] One of the witnesses at the trial of the Regent and Senaputtee of Manipur, in 1891, stated that Mr. Quinton was partly induced to enter the palace from which he never emerged alive, by the Manipuris saying, “Are you not our deity?”—Ed.
Chapter II.
Samagudting—Unhealthy quarters—A callous widower—Want of water—Inhabitants of the Naga Hills—Captain Butler—Other officials—Our life in the wilds—A tiger carries off the postman—An Indian forest—Encouragement.
My first impressions of Samagudting, were anything but favourable. It was eminently a “make-shift place.” It had been occupied by us as a small outpost, from time to time, between 1846 and 1851, but it was never fit for a permanent post of more than twenty-five men, as the water supply was bad, there being no springs, and only a few water holes which were entirely dependent on the uncertain rainfall. A small tank had been constructed, but it was 500 feet below the summit, so that water was sold at an almost prohibitive rate. All articles of food were scarce, dear and bad, wood was enormously dear, and to crown all, the place was unhealthy and constantly enveloped in fog.
Samagudting[1] ought never to have been occupied, and would not have been, had the Government taken ordinary precautions to verify the too roseate reports of an officer who wished to see it adopted as the headquarters of a new district, as a speedy road to promotion, and subsequent transfer to a more favoured appointment. The report in question which, among other things, mentioned the existence of springs of water, that existed only in imagination, having once been accepted by the authorities, and a large expenditure incurred, it became a very invidious task for future Political Agents to unmask the affair, and proclaim the extreme unsuitability of Samagudting for a station.
Many other good and healthy sites were available, and I believe that our dealings with the Nagas were greatly retarded, by the adoption of such an unsuitable post. As it was, having made our road over the hill, it was necessary to climb an ascent of over two thousand feet, and an equal descent, before entering the really important portion of the Angami Naga country. I at once saw that the right entrance lay by the Diphoo Panee Gorge, and I recommended its adoption. I began to make this road during the Naga Hills Campaign of 1879–80, and it has since been regularly used.
Having said all that there was to say against Samagudting, it is only fair to mention its good points. First, though never so cold in the winter, as the plains, the temperature was never so high in the hot and rainy seasons; and when the weather was fine, it was very enjoyable. The views from the hill were magnificent. To the south, the Burrail range, from which a broad and undulating valley divided us. To the west, a long stretch of hills and forests. To the east, the valley of the Dunseree, bordered by the Rengma and Lotah Naga hills, a vast forest, stretching as far as the eye could reach, with here and there a large patch of high grass land, one of which many miles in extent, was the Rengma Putha, a grand elephant catching ground in old times, where many a noble elephant became a victim to the untiring energy of the Bengali elephant phandaits or noosers, from the Morung.[2] To the north, the view extended over a pathless forest, the first break being the Doboka Hills. Behind these, a long bank of mist showed the line of the Burrhampooter, while on clear days in the cold weather, we might see the dark line of the Bhootan Hills, with the snowy peaks of the Himalayas towering above them.[3] Altogether, it was a sight once seen, never to be forgotten.
Samagudting.
[Page 14.
There was a footpath all round the hill, which, after a little alteration of level here and there, and a little repairing, where landslips had made it unsafe, was delightful for a morning or evening walk or ride. As my wife was fond of botany, she found a subject of never-ending interest in the many wild flowers, ferns, and climbing plants, and soon grew accustomed to riding along the edge of a dizzy precipice.
Our private establishment consisted of ten or twelve servants in all, including a girl of the Kuki tribe, named Bykoout, who assisted the ayah; a very small establishment for India. Servants in Assam are bad and difficult to keep. Most of mine were imported, but, with the exception of my two faithful Bhooyas, Seewa and Keptie, and a syce (groom), by name Peewa, they were all soon corrupted, though some had been with me for years. Seewa once said to me, “The influence here is so bad, that we too shall be corrupted if we stay long.” Seewa was quite a character. One day I got a letter from one of his relations, asking me to tell him that his wife was dead. I remembered her well; it was a love match, and she had run away with him. I feared it would be such a blow, that I felt quite nervous about telling him, and put it off till the evening, when, with a faltering voice, I broke the news as gently as I could. Instead of the outburst of grief I had looked for, he quietly asked, “What did she die of?” I said, “Fever.” He replied, “Oh, yes, I thought it must be that. Will you write and see that all her property is made over to my brother, otherwise some of her people may steal it?”
The state of things at Samagudting was very discouraging. I resented seeing the Government and the establishment being charged famine prices for everything, by the Nagas and Khyahs; also the general squalor which prevailed, and which I felt need not exist. It was the inheritance of the hand-to-mouth system in which everything had been commenced in early days. However, my wife set me an example of cheerfulness, and I made up my mind to remedy all the evils I could. First, the supply system was attacked, and I made arrangements with some old Khyah friends at Golaghat, to send up large supplies of rice and other kinds of food, and as the season advanced, I encouraged such of the military police as could be spared to take up land at Dimapur, and cultivate. For ourselves, I bought two cows at Borpathar, and established them at Nichu Guard, whence my gardener brought up the milk every day. In a short time we were more comfortable than could have been expected, and there was the additional satisfaction of seeing that the arrangements for cheaper food for the establishment proved successful. Water was the standing difficulty; we had to depend upon the caprice of the Naga water-carriers, and frequently my wife’s bath, filled ready for the next morning, had to be emptied in the evening to provide water for cooking our evening meal! Sometimes I got clean water for drinking from the Diphoo Panee, otherwise what we had was as if it had been taken from a dirty puddle. The want of water prevented our having a garden near our house; we had a few hardy flowers, including the shoe-flower—a kind of hibiscus—roses, and passion-flower. Such vegetable-garden as we had was at Nichu Guard, where the soil was good, and water plentiful.
Our house was watertight, and that was the best that could be said for it. It was thatched, with walls of split bamboos and strengthened by wooden posts; there were no glass windows, and the doors and shutters were of split bamboo tied together; the mud floor was also covered with thin split bamboos, and had to be swept constantly, as the dust worked through. We had one sitting-room, a bed-room, bath-room, pantry, and store-room, the latter full of rats. Snakes occasionally visited us, and a day or two after we had settled in, a cat rushed in while we were at breakfast, jumped on my knee and took away the meat from my plate, and bit and scratched me when I tried to catch her. My dressing-room was the shade of a tree outside, where I bathed Anglo-Indian camp fashion, substituting a large hollow bamboo for the usual mussuk, or skin of water.
We arrived at Samagudting on January 23rd, 1874, and by the beginning of February felt quite old residents; hill-walking no longer tired me, and we had made acquaintance with all the Nagas of the village, and of many others, and were on quite friendly terms with “Jatsolé,” the chief of Samagudting, a shrewd far-seeing man, with great force of character.
I have mentioned the Burrail range, and the valley separating us. Besides Samagudting there were two other villages on our side, Sitekima, on the opposite bank of the Diphoo Panee Gorge, and Tesephima, on outlying spurs of Samagudting. I say Samagudting, as it has become the common appellation, but correctly speaking it should be Chumookodima.
On the side of the Burrail facing us, were villages belonging to a tribe we call Kutcha Nagas, a race inferior in fighting power to the Angamis, but not unlike them in appearance, though of inferior physique. These villages were formerly inhabited by Cacharees.[4]
On February 4th, I had a letter from Captain Butler, saying that he would be at Kohima in a day or two, and asking me to meet him there. He said that three of the police would be a sufficient escort. I accordingly took three men, and started on the 6th, marching to Piphima twenty-one miles, and the next morning another twenty-one into Kohima, two very hard marches. I was glad to renew my acquaintance with Butler, whom I had known when he first landed in India in 1861, and I was in Fort William, studying for my Hindoostani examination. He was a fine manly fellow, admirably fitted to conduct an expedition, where pluck and perseverance were required. Here, I also met Dr. Brown, Political Agent of Manipur, and Captain (now Colonel) Badgley and Lieutenant (now Colonel C.B.) Woodthorpe, R.E., of the survey, also Lieutenant (now Major V.C.) Ridgeway, 44th N.I., I spent a pleasant evening, discussing various subjects with Captain Butler, and early on the 8th started on my return journey.
Captain Butler had done the whole forty-two miles into Samagudting in one day, and I determined to attempt it, and succeeded, though the last 2000 feet of ascent to my house was rather hard, tired as I was. My wife did not expect me, but I had arranged to fire three shots from my rifle as a signal, if I arrived at any time by night; this I did about 500 feet below my house, and I at once saw lanterns appear far above me, and in a quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes, I was at my door. The sound of firing at 9 P.M. created quite a sensation among the weak-nerved ones on the hill, but it was good practice for the sentries to be kept on the alert. Ever after, three shots from a rifle or a revolver, were always my signal when I neared home, and often in after years were they heard in the dead of night, when I was thought to be miles away. My wife used to say that it kept the people in good order, never knowing when to expect me. I think it did.
Life was never monotonous. I took long walks, after our morning walk round the hill, to inspect roads and bridges—a very important work. Then I attended Cutcherry (the court of justice) and heard cases, often with a loaded revolver in my hand, in case of any wild savage attempting to dispute my authority; then I finished off revenue work, of which there was little, and went home, had a cup of tea, visited hospitals and gaol, if I had not already done so; and afterwards went for an evening walk with my wife, round the hill or through the village.
Sometimes duty took me to the plains, and we had a most delightful march to the Nambor hot springs, when I arranged to have a rest house built at Nowkatta, between Dimapur and Hurreo Jan. We reached the last place, just after a dreadful catastrophe had occurred. The rest house was raised on posts, six feet above the ground. One night when the man carrying the dak (post) had arrived from Borpathar, he hung up the letter bag under the house on a peg, and having had his evening meal, retired to rest in the house with one or two other travellers. Suddenly a huge tiger rushed up the steps, sprang through the open door, and seizing one of the sleepers, bounded off into the forest with him. One of my police who was there snatched up his rifle, pursued the tiger and fired, making him drop the man, but life was extinct, and when we arrived, there was a huge bloodstain on the floor, at least a yard long. Strange to say, the letter bag was on one occasion carried off by a tiger, but afterwards recovered, uninjured save by tooth marks. The policeman was promoted for his gallantry.
The day after leaving Hurreo Jan, we met a party of Rengma Nagas coming to see me, with some little presents. They were the men who helped to kill the panther, that wounded me in 1862,[5] and they brought with them the son of one of their number, who was killed by the infuriated beast, a fine lad of fifteen; needless to say, that I rewarded these friendly people, whom I had not seen for twelve years. We halted a day or two at the springs, as I had to visit Golaghat on business, and unfortunately missed seeing a herd of wild elephants caught, a sight I had wished my wife to see. She did see the stockade, but the elephants had been already taken out. I hope farther on to describe an elephant drive.
I do not know a more agreeable place to halt at than the hot springs in former days. In cold weather before the mosquitoes had arrived it was perfect rest. A little opening in the tall dark forest, in the centre some scrub jungle, including fragrant wild lemons and citrons, with the pool in the midst; a babbling stream flowed all round the opening, on the other side of which was a high bank. The bathing was delightful, and could be made quite private for ladies, by means of a cloth enclosure, well known to the Assamese by the name of ”Âr Kapôr.” Then the occasional weird cry of the hoolook ape, and the gambols of numerous monkeys in the tall trees on the high bank, gave plenty of interest to the scene, had the general aspect of the place failed in its attractions.
Soon after our return to headquarters, the survey party arrived from the interior of the hills, and after a few days’ rest, departed for their summer quarters. Captain Butler then started for England, and Mr. Needham came in to Samagudting.
Thus left in charge for a considerable period, I felt justified in doing more than I should have done, had my stay only been of a temporary nature, and I went most thoroughly into all questions connected with the hills and their administration. My long experience in charge of a native state full of wild hill tribes, and my personal knowledge of many of the Naga and other wild tribes of Assam (a knowledge that went back as far as 1860), were a great help to me, as I was consequently not new to the work. The eastern frontier had always been to my mind the most interesting field of work in India, and now it was for me to learn all I could.
[1] The Assam Administration Report of 1877–8 writes of it as “notoriously unhealthy, and it had long been proposed to move the troops to a higher and less feverish spot.”—Ed.
[2] When I first went to Assam almost all elephant-catching was done by noosing.
[3] The country bordering on the Bhootan Dooars in the Ringpore district.
[4] See subsequent sketch of Naga tribes in [Chapter III].
[5] Sir James (then Lieut.) Johnstone headed a party to clear an Assamese village from a panther that had killed several natives and was terrifying the district. It retreated into a house which he ordered to be pulled down, and as his men were thus engaged it sprang from a window on to his shoulder. With his other arm—the left—he fired at it behind his back and wounded it sufficiently to make it loose its hold, and rush off into the jungle, where it was killed in the course of the afternoon. His arm was terribly injured, and he always considered that he owed complete recovery of the use of it to the kindness and skill of an English medical friend who came from a great distance to attend him. Every one else who was wounded by the same panther died.—Ed.
Chapter III.
Historical events connected with Manipur and the Naga Hills—Different tribes—Their religion—Food and customs.
Shortly after my arrival at Samagudting, I received a cheering letter, just when I most needed it, from my old friend Wynne, then Acting Foreign Secretary, saying, “Don’t be too disappointed at not receiving a better appointment than the Naga Hills. You will have plenty of good work to do, and you will increase your already very extensive knowledge of wild tribes.” It was the last letter I ever received from him, as cholera quickly carried him off, and I lost in him one of the kindest friends I ever had, one who had constantly interested himself in my work, and given me advice. Such a friend would have been invaluable now. Our position in the Naga Hills was an anxious one, and can only be properly realised by knowing the course of previous events.
Our first acquaintance with the Nagas practically began in 1832, when Captain Jenkins and Lieutenant Pemberton escorted by Rajah Ghumbeer Singh’s Manipur troops, forced a passage through the hills with a view to ascertaining if there were a practicable route into Assam. They came viâ Paptongmai and Samagudting to Mohong Deejood. There is every reason to believe that the Manipuris in former days did penetrate into the Naga Hills, and exacted tribute when they felt strong enough to do so. All the villages have Manipur names in addition to their own. But during the period of her decadence, just before and during the Burmese War of 1819–25, any influence Manipur may have possessed fell into abeyance. At that time it was re-asserted, and Ghumbeer Singh reduced several villages to submission, including the largest of all, Kohima, at which place he stood upon a stone and had his footprints sculptured on it, in token of conquest. This was set up in a prominent position, together with an upright stone bearing carved figures and an inscription.
The Nagas greatly respected this stone and cleaned it from time to time. They opened a large trade with Manipur, and whenever a Manipuri visited a Naga village he was treated as an honoured guest, at a time when a British subject could not venture into the interior without risk of being murdered.
Kohima Stone.
[Page 23.
Even up to the Naga Hills campaign of 1879–80, the Nagas regarded Manipur as the greater power of the two, because her conduct was consistent; if she threatened, she acted. One British subject after another might be murdered with impunity, but woe betide the village that murdered a subject of Manipur. A force of Manipuris was instantly despatched, the village was attacked, destroyed, and ample compensation exacted. The system answered well for Manipur; many of the Nagas began to speak Manipuri, and several villages paid an annual tribute. Still, up to 1851, we considered that we had some shadowy claim to the hills, though we never openly asserted it.
I may as well give a short account of the different tribes inhabiting the Naga Hills district when I took charge. The oldest were—
Cacharees.
Their origin is obscure. They are first met with in the north-east portion of the Assam Valley between the Muttuk country and Sudya. Round the last in the vast forests, there are numerous ruins ascribed by the people to the Cacharee Rajahs, built of substantial brickwork. I have not seen any sculptured stonework, but it may exist. The traditions give no clue to their original home, which was probably in Thibet. From the neighbourhood of Sudya they penetrated down the valley, leaving buildings and remnants of their tribes here and there, notably in the Durrung district. The main body were, for a time settled in the neighbourhood of Dimapur, and the country lying between it and Doboka, the Cachar district, but when they arrived or how long they stayed we have no means of ascertaining. They occupied the first two or three ranges of the Burrails and stoutly contested possession with the Naga invaders, and after they had been dispossessed made a gallant attempt to retrieve their affairs by an attack on Sephema. They entered the hills by the Diphoo gorge and constructed a paved road up to the neighbourhood of Sephema where they would probably have succeeded in their operations, but that the Sephema Nagas, skilful then as now, in the use of poison, poisoned the waters and destroyed a large portion of the invaders; the rest retreated to Dimapur, and eventually left the neighbourhood and settled in Cachar, to which they gave their name. There are still a good many Cacharees on the banks of the Kopiti, in the neighbourhood of Mohung-dee-jood. They are a fine hardy race, and in my time the Naga Hills police was largely recruited from them. Under Captain Butler they did good service, and would have gone anywhere when led by him.[1] The Cacharees were governed formerly by a race of despotic chiefs.
Kukis.
The Kukis are a wandering race consisting of several tribes who have long been working up from the South. They were first heard of as Kukis, in Manipur, between 1830 and 1840; though tribes of the same race had long been subject to the Rajah of Manipur. The new immigrants began to cause anxiety about the year 1845, and soon poured into the hill tracts of Manipur in such numbers, as to drive away many of the older inhabitants. Fortunately, the political agent (at this time Lieutenant afterwards Colonel McCulloch)[2] was a man well able to cope with the situation. Cool and resolute, he at once realised and faced the difficulty. Manipur in those days, owing to intestine quarrels, could have done nothing, and the Rajah Nur Singh gladly handed over the management of the new arrivals to him.
Seeing that the Kukis had been driven north by kindred but more powerful tribes, and that their first object was to secure land for cultivation; McCulloch, as they arrived, settled them down, allotting to them lands in different places according to their numbers, and where their presence would be useful on exposed frontiers. He advanced them large sums from his own pocket, assigning different duties to each chief’s followers. Some were made into irregular troops, others were told off to carry loads according to the customs of the state. Thus in time many thousands of fierce Kukis were settled down as peaceful subjects of Manipur, and Colonel McCulloch retained supreme control over them to the last. So great was his influence, that he had only to send round his silver mounted dao (Burmese sword) as a kind of fiery cross, when all able-bodied men at once assembled at his summons.
Colonel McCulloch’s policy of planting Kuki settlements on exposed frontiers, induced the Government of Bengal to try a similar experiment, and a large colony of Kukis were settled in 1855 in the neighbourhood of Langting, to act as a barrier for North Cachar against the raids of the Angami Nagas. The experiment answered well to a certain extent, and would have answered better, had we been a little less timid. The Kukis are strictly monarchical, and their chiefs are absolutely despotic, and may murder or sell their subjects into slavery without a murmur of dissent. Their original home cannot be correctly ascertained, but there seem to be traces of them as far south as the Malay peninsula. They are readily distinguishable from the Nagas, and are braver men. Their women are often very fair, and wear their hair in a long thick plait down the back. The men are mostly copper coloured, and have often good features.
Kutcha Nagas.
The tribe we call Kutcha Nagas, very much resemble the Angamis, though of inferior physique. They are closely allied to the Nagas in Manipur, as well as to the Angamis, and probably were pushed in front of the latter from the Northern North-East, as the Kukis were forced in by the pressure of stronger tribes to their South. They have always been less warlike than their powerful neighbours, though they could be troublesome at times.
Angami Nagas.
A strong built, hardy, active race, the men averaging 5 feet 8 inches to 6 feet in height, and the women tall in proportion. In colour they vary from a rich brown to a yellowish or light brown. They have a manly independent bearing, and are bred up to war from their earliest years. While the Kukis are monarchists, the Nagas are republicans, and their Peumahs, or chiefs, are elected, and though they often have great influence, they are in theory, only primus inter pares, and are liable at any time to be displaced. Practically they often remain in office for years, and are greatly respected.
Where the Angamis came from must be uncertain till the languages of our Eastern frontier are scientifically analysed. The late Mr. Damant, a man of great talent and powers of research, had a valuable paper regarding them in hand, but it perished in the insurrection of 1879. The probability is, that they came originally from the south-eastern corner of Thibet.
Some of the Maories of New Zealand reminded me of the Angamis. The well-defined nose is a prominent characteristic of the last, as it is of some of the inhabitants of Polynesia. The people of Samagudting—that is, the adults in 1874—told me that they had come from the north-east, and were the seventh generation that had been there. When they first occupied their village, the site was, they said, covered with the bones and tusks of elephants which had come there to die.
Had I lived longer among the Nagas, I should have liked to have made deeper researches into their language and past history; as it was, all my time was taken up with my active duties, and I had not a moment to spare.
Their dress is a short kilt of black cotton cloth, ornamented, in the case of warriors, with rows of cowrie shells. They have handsome cloths of dark blue and yellow thrown over their shoulders in cold weather. Their arms are spears and heavy short swords, called by the Assamese name of dao; helmets and shields of wicker work (used chiefly to cover the more vulnerable parts of the body) and sometimes clothed with skins of tigers or bears. They have also tails of wood decorated with goats’ hair dyed red. The warspears are plain; the ornamental ones are covered with goats’ hair dyed red, and are sometimes used in battle. Their drill is of a most complicated style, and requires much practice. An Angami in full war paint is a very formidable-looking individual. They are divided into many clans. Several clans often inhabit one village, and it frequently happened that two clans thus situated were at deadly feud with each other.
Blood feuds were common among all the hill-tribes, but the system was carried to excess among the Angamis. Life for life was the rule, and until each of the opposing parties had lost an equal number, peace was impossible, and whenever members of one village met any belonging to the other, hostilities were sure to result. Sometimes an attempt was made to bring about a reconciliation, but then it frequently happened that the number of slain to the credit of each were unequal. Mozuma and Sephema might be at war, and Mozuma killed five, whereas Sephema had killed only four. Sephema says, “I must kill one more to make the balance, then I will treat for peace,” so war continues. Some day Sephema has a chance, but kills two instead of the one that was required; this gives her the advantage, and Mozuma refuses to treat. So it goes on interminably. The position of a small village at war with a large one, was often deplorable as no one dared to leave the village except under a strong escort. I once knew a case of some Sephema men at feud with Mozuma, hiring two women of the powerful village of Konoma to escort them along the road as thus accompanied no one dare touch them.
Once at Piphima, when my assistant Mr. Needham was encamped there, parties from two hostile villages suddenly met each other and rushed to arms. He was equal to the occasion and stopped the combat. I made it a criminal offence to fight on our road called the “Political Path,” and it was generally respected as neutral ground.
No Angami could assume the “toga virilis,” in this case the kilt ornamented with cowrie shells, already described, until he had slain an enemy, and in the more powerful villages no girl could marry a man unless he was so decorated. The cowrie ornaments were taken off when a man was mourning the death of a relation.
To kill a baby in arms, or a woman, was accounted a greater feat than killing a man, as it implied having penetrated to the innermost recesses of an enemy’s country, whereas a man might be killed anywhere by a successful ambush. I knew a man who had killed sixty women and children, when on one occasion he happened to come upon them after all the men had left the village on a hunting expedition.
Every Naga who was able to murder an enemy did so, and received great commendation for it by all his friends. Later, when I was in Manipur, I had a pleasant young fellow as interpreter. He often took my boys out for a walk when he had nothing else to do, and was a careful, trustworthy man. Once I asked him how many people he had killed (he wore the cowrie kilt, a sure sign he had killed some one). A modest blush suffused his face as if he did not like to boast of such a good deed, and he mildly said, “Two, a woman and a girl!”
The Angamis when on friendly terms are an agreeable people to deal with, polite, courteous, and hospitable. I never knew any one take more pains or more successfully not to hurt the susceptibilities of those they are talking to, indeed they show a tact and good feeling worthy of imitation. My wife and I soon knew all the villagers well, and often visited them, when we were always offered beer, and asked to come into their verandahs and sit down, and just as we were leaving, our host would search the hen’s nests to give us a few eggs. The beer we never took, but many Europeans like it and find it wholesome. It is made of rice and has rather a sharp taste. Their houses are large substantial structures built of wood and bamboo thatched with grass, and the eaves come low down. Houses with any pretensions always have verandahs. Besides the houses, there are granaries, often at a distance for fear of fire. The Angamis bury their dead in and about their villages, and for a time, decorate them with some of the belongings of the deceased. Naturally they strongly object to the graves being disturbed, and in making alterations I was careful not to hurt their feelings.
The more powerful villages in the interior of the hills have a large area of cultivation on terraces cut out of the hillside, and carefully irrigated. Some of the terraces go up the hillsides to a great height, and show considerable skill in their formation. On these terraces lowland rice is grown and is very productive. Some of the smaller outlying villages like Samagudting have only ordinary hill cultivation, where upland rice is grown. The terrace land used to be greatly valued, and was often sold at prices equal to £22 to £25 per acre!
The Angamis, in common with most hill-tribes that I have come across, have a vague indefinite belief in a supreme being, but look on him as too great and good to injure them. They believe themselves also to be subject to the influence of evil spirits, whom it is their constant endeavour to appease by sacrifices. Every misfortune is, as a rule, ascribed to evil spirits, and much money is spent on appeasing them, the usual way being to offer fowls, of which the head, feet, and entrails are offered to the demon, with many incantations. The other parts are eaten by the sacrificer.
All kinds of animals are readily eaten by the Angamis, and those dying a natural death are not rejected. Dogs’ flesh is highly esteemed. When a man wants to have a delicate dish, he starves his dog for a day to make him unusually voracious, and then cooks a huge dish of rice on which he feeds the hungry beast. As soon as the dog has eaten his fill, he is knocked on the head and roasted, cut up and divided, and the rice being taken out, is considered the bonne bouche. The Manipur dogs are regularly bred for sale to the hill-tribes, Nagas included, and a portion of the bazaar, or market, used to be allotted to them. I have seen a string of nineteen dogs being led away to be strangled. Poor things, they seemed to realise that all was not well.
The Naga women are not handsome but very pleasant-looking, and many of the girls are pretty, but soon age with the hard toil they have to perform; working in the fields and carrying heavy loads up endless hills. They have plenty of spirit and can generally hold their own. They do not marry till they are nearly or quite grown up. Divorce can be easily obtained when there is an equal division of goods. Often a young man takes advantage of this, and marries a rich old widow, and soon divorces her, receiving half her property, when he is in a position to marry a nice young girl. The tribal name of the Angami Nagas is “Tengima.” Naga is a name given by the inhabitants of the plains, and in the Assamese language means “naked.” As some of the Naga tribes are seen habitually in that state, the name was arbitrarily applied to them all. It is the greatest mistake to connect them with the snake worshippers, “Nag Bungsees” of India. Neither Nagas or Manipuris, or any tribes on the eastern frontier, are addicted to this worship, or have any traditions connected with it, and any snake, cobra (Nag) or otherwise, would receive small mercy at their hands. The slightest personal acquaintance with the Assamese and their language, would have dispelled this myth for ever.
The Nagas are skilful iron-workers and turn out very handsome spears. Their women weave substantial and pretty coloured cloths, and every man knows enough of rough carpentering to enable him to build his house, and make pestles and mortars for husking rice. They make rough pottery, but without the potter’s wheel.
After Ghumbeer Singh’s Expedition, our next dealings with the Angamis were in 1833, when Lieut. Gordon, adjutant of the Manipur Levy, accompanied the Rajah of Manipur with a large force of Manipuris into the Angami hills. On this occasion, Kohima and other villages were subdued, as already stated, and an annual tribute exacted by Manipur.
So far as the British territories were concerned, Naga raids went on as usual, but nothing was done till early in January 1839, when Mr. Grange, sub-Assistant Commissioner of the Nowgong District, was despatched with a detachment of the First Assam Sebundies (now 43rd Goorkha Light Infantry), fifty men of the Cachar Infantry, and some Shan Militia, with orders to try and repress these annual outrages. His expedition was ill supplied, but fortunately returned without any severe losses. His route lay through North Cachar to Berrimeh; thence, viâ Razepima to Samagudting and Mohung Deejood; beyond gaining local knowledge there was no result, except perhaps to show that a well-armed party could march where it liked through the hills.
In December 1839, Mr. Grange again visited the hills, and, excepting 1843, an expedition was sent into the hills every year till 1846 when a post was permanently established at Samagudting. None of these expeditions had any really satisfactory result. The Angamis submitted to our troops at the time, and directly we retreated, murder and the carrying off of slaves re-commenced. The establishment of the post at Samagudting had the effect of improving our relations with the people of that village; and Mozuma was always inclined to be friendly; beyond this nothing was accomplished.
In August 1849, Bog Chand Darogal, a brave Assamese who was in charge of Samagudting, was murdered by one of the clans of Mozuma, owing to the rash way in which he interfered in a dispute with another clan, which latter remained faithful to us, and thus led to another expedition on a large scale. Finally, in December 1850, a large force was sent up with artillery. Kohima, which had sent a challenge, was destroyed on February 11th, 1851. In this last engagement over three hundred Nagas were killed, and our prestige thoroughly established. We might then, with great advantage to the people and our own districts, have occupied a permanent post, and while protecting our districts that had suffered so sorely from Naga raids, have spread civilisation far and wide among the hill-tribes. Of course we did nothing of the kind; on such occasions the Government of India always does the wrong thing; it was done now, and, instead of occupying a new position, we retreated, even abandoning our old post at Samagudting, and only maintaining a small body of Shan Militia at Dimapur. The Nagas ascribed our retreat to fear, the periodical raids on our unfortunate villages were renewed, and unheeded by us; and finally, in 1856, we withdrew the detachment from Dimapur and abandoned the post.
The Naga Hills and Manipur.
[Page 35.
After that, the Nagas ran riot, and one outrage after another was committed. In 1862 the guard and village of Borpathar were attacked and, one Sepoy and thirteen villagers killed and two children carried off as slaves, but no notice was taken; it was not till 1866 that, wearied out by repeated outrages and insults, we determined to establish ourselves in the hills, and once for all put down raiding.
A kind of vague boundary between Manipur and the Naga Hills had been laid down in 1842, by Lieutenant Biggs on our part, and Captain Gordon on the part of the Durbar, but in 1851, when utterly sick of Naga affairs, we determined on a policy of non-intervention, permission in writing was given to the Durbar to extend its authority over the Naga villages on our side of the border. This must be remembered later on. Failing any intention on our part to annex the hills, it would have been good policy to have re-organised the Manipur territory, and to have aided the Maharajah to annex and subdue as much as he could under certain restrictions. Had this been done we should have saved ourselves much trouble. Personally, I would rather see the Naga Hills properly administered by ourselves, but the strong rule of Manipur would have been far better than the state of things that prevailed for many years after 1851.
[1] Captain Butler was struck by a spear from a Naga ambuscade, near the village of Pangti in the Naga Hills on December 25, 1876. He died on January 7. He had held the appointment of Political Agent for seven years, and was the son of Colonel Butler, the author of ‘Scenes in Assam’ and ‘A Sketch in Assam,’ the earliest accounts of that eastern border.—Ed.
[2] “The influence exercised by Colonel McCulloch as a political agent at Manipur was most beneficial,” wrote the Times, April 1, 1891, “and since his time no one has been more successful than Colonel Johnstone, who took charge in 1877, and rendered conspicuous service by raising the siege of Kohima by the Nagas in 1879.”—Ed.
Chapter IV.
Value of keeping a promise—Episode of Sallajee—Protection given to small villages, and the large ones defied—“Thorough Government of India” views—A plea for Christian education in the Naga Hills.
Almost from the day I took charge, I let it be known that I was, as natives say, “a man of one word,” and that if I said a thing, I meant it. If I promised a thing, whether a present or punishment, the man got it; and if I refused any request, months of importunity would not move me. This rule saved me much time and worry; instead of being pestered for weeks with some petition, in the hope that my patience would be worn out, I simply said Yes, or No, and the people soon learned that my decision was final. Later on, during the Naga Hills campaign, I found that my ways had not been forgotten, and this made dealing with the people much simpler than it might have been.
A certain number of the villages kept one or two men, as the case might be, constantly in attendance on me to represent them. These were called delegates, and received ten rupees each per mensem. I gave the strictest orders to these men not to engage in their tribal raids, but to remain absolutely neutral. Sephema had two delegates, Sejile and Sallajee by name, and, one day, it was reported to me that the last had joined in a raid by his village on Mozuma, and I instantly summoned him to attend and put him on his trial for disobeying a lawful order. Some wise-acres in the place shook their heads, and doubted if I were strong enough to punish, or the advisability of doing so; but I held that an order must be obeyed, otherwise, it was no use issuing orders, also, that this was an opportunity of making an example. Of course it was an experiment, as no one had been punished before for a similar offence, and I well knew that resistance on his part would mean that to assert my authority I must attack and destroy Sephema, but I felt the time had come for vigorous action, and was prepared to go through with it. I tried Sallajee, found him guilty, and sentenced him to six months’ imprisonment in Tezpore jail. In giving judgment, I said, “You have not been guilty of a disgraceful offence, therefore, I do not sentence you to hard labour, and shall not have you bound or handcuffed like a thief; but, remember, you cannot escape me, so do not be foolish enough to run away from the man in charge of you.” I then sent him in charge of two police sepoys through one hundred miles of forest, and he underwent his imprisonment without attempting to get away. Right thankful I was that my experiment succeeded. Sallajee lived to fight against us, during the campaign in the Naga Hills in 1879–80.
The orders of the Government of India were strictly against our responsibilities being extended. We took tribute from Samagudting, but it was the only village we considered as under our direct rule, and that only so long as it suited us. Before leaving Calcutta, the Foreign Secretary said to me emphatically, when I urged an extension of our sway—“but those villages (the Angami Nagas) are not British territory, and we do not want to extend the ‘red line.’”
However, Government may lay down rules, but as long as they are not sound, they cannot be kept to by artificial bonds, and sooner or later events prove stronger than theories. The fact is, that no Government of late years had ever interested itself in the Eastern Frontier tribes, except so far as to coax them or bribe them to keep quiet. The Abors on the banks of the Burrhampooter had long been paid “blackmail,” and any subterfuge was resorted to, that would stave off the day of reckoning which was nevertheless inevitable.
As regards the Nagas, this timidity was highly reprehensible. We had acquired such a prestige, that the least sign of vigorous action on our part was sure to be crowned with success, so long as we did not make some foolish mistake.
The people in the hills knew that we objected to the system of raiding, and could not understand why, such being the case, we did not put it down, and ascribed our not doing so to weakness, wherein they were right, and inability wherein they were wrong. The less powerful villages would at any time have been glad of our protection, and one of the most powerful—Mozuma, was anxious to become subject to us. Offers of submission had been made once or twice, but no one liked to take the responsibility of going against the policy and orders of the Government. At last an event occurred which brought things to a crisis, and forced us either to adopt a strong policy, or make ourselves contemptible by a confession of weakness, and indifference.
Towards the end of March 1874, a deputation came to me from the village of Mezeffina begging for protection against Mozuma, with whom they had a feud, and from whom for some reason or other they daily expected an attack. They offered to become British subjects and pay revenue in return for protection. I considered the matter carefully, and before I had given my decision, crowds of old people, and women carrying their children, came in asking me to save their lives. I at once decided to grant their request, and promised them what they asked, on condition that they paid up a year’s tribute in advance. This they at once did, and I immediately sent a messenger to proclaim to Mozuma that the people of Mezeffina were British subjects, and to threaten them or any one else with dire vengeance if they dared to lay hands on them. Our new subjects asked me and my wife, to go out and receive their submission in person, an invitation which we accepted, and next day a large number of men turned up to carry my wife, and our baggage, and that of our escort, consisting of twenty men.
The Mezeffina men rested for the night in Samagudting, and early on the following morning we started, and reached the village in good time, where we were received with great demonstrations of respect. We spent the night there, and then were conveyed back to Samagudting, after a very pleasant visit.
I did not underrate the grave responsibility that I incurred in going against the policy of Government, but I felt it was utterly impossible that I, as their representative, could quietly stand by, and see a savage massacre perpetrated, within sight of our station of Samagudting. There is no doubt that this would have speedily followed had I sent the people away without acceding to their wishes. Of course, I might have used my influence with Mozuma to prevent a raid in this particular instance, but that would have been giving protection, and, I argued, if we give protection, let us get a little revenue to help to pay for it. Why should all the advantage be on one side? Besides a half-and-half policy would never have succeeded. “Thorough” should be the motto of all who deal with savage and half-civilised races; a promise to refer to Government is of little avail when people are thinking of each other’s blood. Action, immediate action, is what is required. A failure to realise this, brought on later the Mozuma expedition of 1877–78, in which a valuable officer lost his life.
Besides the obvious objections I have pointed out, any attempt to make terms in favour of one village after another by negotiations with their adversaries, would have involved us in so many complications, that it would probably have ended in a combination against us.
I reported the matter to Government, and before I could receive any answer, the village of Sitekima which had a feud with Sephema came in and asked for the same favour to be accorded to it, as had been granted to Mezeffina. I accordingly took them over on the same terms, and again issued a proclamation calling on all people to respect their rights as British subjects.
Soon after I heard from the Chief Commissioner of Assam, directing me to take over no more villages without a reference. However, this could not be, there was no telegraph in those days, and the tide in favour of asking for our protection had set in in earnest, and must be taken at the flood. ”Vestigia nulla retrorsum” there was no retreat; and having acted according to my judgment for the best interests of the State, I felt bound to take further responsibility on myself, when necessary. Accordingly when the little village of Phenina applied for protection and offered revenue, I at once acceded, and accepted their allegiance as British subjects, with the result that they were left in peace by their powerful neighbours, and had no more anxiety as to their safety. Phenina was followed by several other villages, to whom I granted the same terms.
The Mozuma Nagas were always an intelligent set of men, and liked to be in the forefront of any movement. Seeing the part that other villages were taking, they came forward and offered to pay revenue, if we would establish a guard of police in their village, and set up a school for their children to attend. This was a question involving a considerable expenditure of money, and as they were not in need of protection, I felt that I could not accede to their request without further reference, but I sent on the proposal to Government with a strong recommendation that it should be adopted. The consideration of it was put off for a time, and when very tardily my recommendation was accepted, the Mozuma people had, as I predicted, changed their minds. Such cases are of constant occurrence. When will our rulers take the story of the Sibylline books to heart?
The question of education generally, was one that greatly interested me, my success in Keonjhur[1] in the tributary Mehals of Orissa, where I had introduced schools, having been very great. In combination with other suggestions, I strongly urged the advisability of establishing a regular system of education, including religious instruction, under a competent clergyman of the Church of England. I pointed out that the Nagas had no religion; that they were highly intelligent and capable of receiving civilisation; that with it they would want a religion, and that we might just as well give them our own, and make them in that way a source of strength, by thus mutually attaching them to us. Failing this, I predicted that, following the example of other hill-tribes, they would sooner or later become debased Hindoos or Mussulmans, and in the latter case, as we knew by experience, be a constant source of trouble and annoyance, Mussulman converts in Assam and Eastern Bengal, being a particularly disagreeable and bigoted set. My suggestion did not find favour with the authorities, and I deeply regret it. A fine, interesting race like the Angamis, might, as a Christian tribe, occupy a most useful position on our Eastern Frontier, and I feel strongly that we are not justified in allowing them to be corrupted and gradually “converted” by the miserable, bigoted, caste-observing Mussulman of Bengal, men who have not one single good quality in common with the manly Afghans, and other real Mussulman tribes. I do not like to think it, but, unless we give the Nagas a helping hand in time, such is sure to be their fate, and we shall have ourselves to thank when they are utterly corrupted.
The late General Dalton, C.S.I., when Commissioner of Chota Nagpure, did his utmost to aid Christian Mission among the wild Kols; his argument being like mine, that they wanted a religion, and that were they Christians, they would be a valuable counterpoise in time of trouble to the vast non-Christian population of Behar. In the same way it cannot be doubted, that a large population of Christian hill-men between Assam and Burmah, would be a valuable prop to the State. Properly taught and judiciously handled, the Angamis would have made a fine manly set of Christians, of a type superior to most Indian native converts, and probably devoted to our rule. As things stand at present, I fear they will be gradually corrupted and lose the good qualities, which have made them attractive in the past, and that, as time goes on, unless some powerful counter influence is brought to bear on them, they will adopt the vile, bigoted type of Mahommedanism prevalent in Assam and Cachar, and instead of becoming a tower of strength to us, be a perpetual weakness and source of annoyance. I earnestly hope that I may be wrong, and that their future may be as bright a one as I could wish for them.
[1] As Assist-sup. of the tributary Mehals, Sir James (then Lieutenant) Johnstone endowed schools at Keonjhur and presented the Government with some land he had bought for the purpose. When the Rajah, during whose minority he had managed the affairs of Keonjhur as political officer, came of age, the agency was abolished for economy.—Ed.
Chapter V.
Dimapur—A terrible storm—Cultivation—Aggression by Konoma—My ultimatum—Konoma submits—Birth of a son—Forest flowers—A fever patient—Proposed change of station—Leave Naga Hills—March through the forest—Depredation by tigers—Calcutta—Return to England.
Once more before the weather began to be unpleasantly hot, we went down to Dimapur that I might inspect the road and a rest house being built at Nowkatta. Dimapur though hot, was pleasant enough in the evening, when I used to row my wife about on the large tank in a canoe which just held us both. We could see a few feet below the surface, the remains of the post set up when a tank is dedicated to the deity. This post is usually many feet above the water, but here it had rotted away from age. On a tree close to the rest house I shot a chestnut coloured flying squirrel.
One sultry afternoon I rode out alone to Nowkatta. About half-way I was stopped by a sudden storm, one of the most terrific I have ever seen; the wind howled through the forest, and the trees swayed to and fro literally like blades of grass. As the storm increased, trees were torn up by the roots right and left, and some that were very firmly rooted were shattered in pieces. Many of these trees were 80 to 120 feet in height, and large in proportion, but the wind was so high that I never heard the sound of the crash. I hardly expected to escape being crushed by a falling tree, and nothing but the extreme activity of my pony, a little Manipuri, saved me. I was at length enabled to get on to Nowkatta, but as I returned, I had much difficulty in making my way through the masses of fallen trees which formed an obstacle often six feet in height, and I could only pass them by penetrating the dense underwood, and riding round one end.
I returned to Dimapur later than I expected and drenched by the soaking rain. Next day we went back to Samagudting very glad to be again in a cooler atmosphere. We both paid for our visit to the lowlands in a sharp attack of intermittent fever. Luckily, my wife speedily recovered; but it told on my system, already saturated with malaria and was the forerunner of constant attacks.
Except for its unhealthiness, Dimapur was a nice place, and, if properly opened out, and cultivated, the country would be far more salubrious. For this reason I advocated families being induced to settle there as cultivators; and I had a scheme for establishing a Police Militia Reserve in that district. I thought that a certain number of the Naga Hills police might with advantage be discharged every year and enlisted as reserve men, liable to serve when needed in case of trouble; a reduced rate of pay to be given to each man, and a grant of land to cultivate. I believe the system would have worked well, but it was not sanctioned.
An incident occurred in the month of August which might have proved serious. A native of a Kutcha Naga village within sight of Samagudting came to complain that, while gathering wild tea-seed for sale, he had been driven off by a Konoma Naga. Konoma, though not the most populous village, had long been considered the most powerful and warlike in the hills, and a threat from one of its members was almost a sentence of death to a man from a weak village. The Merema clan also, one of the worst in the hills for lawless deeds, had never made its submission to Captain Butler, though it had on one occasion to his predecessor. On hearing the man’s complaint, I at once sent off a message by a Naga calling upon the chiefs of Konoma to come in to me, and also to cease molesting their neighbours; but the man returned, saying that they refused to come in, and intended to do as they liked with the tea-seed, as it was theirs. This was more than I could put up with, and I selected a particularly trustworthy man, a naik (corporal) in the police named Kurum Singh,[1] who knew the Naga language, and would, I was convinced, speak out fearlessly, and deliver my message. I sent him off at once to Konoma to call upon the head-men to come in without delay, and make their humble submission to me within a day and a half of receiving the summons, failing which I would attack and destroy their village. Kurum Singh left, and I felt rather anxious, as Konoma contained five times as many warriors as I had police all told, and it occupied a strong position; however, I felt I had done my duty. It was a great satisfaction when Kurum Singh returned, saying that the chiefs were coming in, and they did so within the stipulated time, and made their submission and presented me with a large state spear as a token of it. They also humbly apologised and promised never to molest that Kutcha Naga village again; and when I spoke of the Queen, begged me to write to her and say, that she must not believe any idle tales against the Konoma men, as they would be her humble servants. It was a satisfactory ending to what might have been a troublesome business. The state spear now ornaments my hall.
Fulford Hall.
[Page 48.
On the 23rd June, my wife presented me with a son, and he being the first child of pure European parentage born in the hills, the Nagas of Samagudting took great interest in the baby, and old Yatsolé the Péumah, said he should be their chief and named him “Naga Rajah.” The friendly women and girls from the village constantly came to see him. We liked the hills and the people, and the work so much that we both felt we could willingly have passed our lives among them. All the same, our accommodation was really most wretched, and food was bad and scarce, and water scarcer. As the rainy season advanced the place grew more and more unhealthy, and having a baby to attend to, my wife never left Samagudting. I continued to go down to Dimapur occasionally, and sometimes rode out with my friend Needham to inspect the path that was being cut to Mohung Deejood and a rest house being built at a place in the forest on that road, called Borsali. It was pleasant to have a companion during a long lonely ride. Needham was an indefatigable worker, and always ready for a dash. He made a capital frontier officer, and has since greatly distinguished himself on the N.-E. Frontier.
Towards the end of August, the Vanda Cærulea orchids began to come into flower. There was a magnificent plant of them in a large old tree on the summit of the hill, indeed the most splendid specimen of their kind that I ever saw; but wild flowers, many really beautiful, were generally procurable, especially a small snow-white flower rather like a periwinkle that grew in the jungle on a small ever-green bush. Ferns, including maidenhair, were very plentiful, and we made collections of them in our morning and evening walks. These walks often led us past stray huts, and once my wife was asked to come into one and prescribe for a sick Naga woman. We both entered it and finding that the woman had fever, we told her husband to keep her cool and quiet, and promised some medicine. When we again went to see her, the hut, about nine feet by seven feet in size, was full of little fires on the floor, over which several Nagas were drying strips of flesh from an elephant that had been killed a few miles away. The temperature must have been about 110 degrees, so little wonder that the poor woman was no better. The husband said she would not take her medicine, and when in our presence he attempted to give it she hit him on the head; yet he wore the warrior’s kilt, so had taken at least one life. When my wife sat down by her and gave her the medicine she took it readily. Towards the end of the rainy season many were laid low by fever. Natives of other parts of India until thoroughly acclimatised, suffer greatly from the diseases peculiar to jungle districts, and our servants were not exceptions to the rule. Once acclimatised, a Hindoostani seems able to stand anything. It used to be said in my regiment, the 1st Assam Light Infantry Battalion, now 42nd, that Hindoostani recruits spent their first three years’ service in hospital! I am sure that something of the same kind might have been said of those who came to the Naga Hills before the headquarters were removed to Kohima.
Captain Butler, recognising the unsuitableness of Samagudting for a station, had recommended the removal of the headquarters to Woka, in the Lotah Naga country, and about sixty-three miles from Kohima. I spoke to him on the subject, and pointed out the superior advantages of Kohima as a central position, dominating the Angami Naga country. He quite agreed with me, but said he had advocated Woka as being nearer the plains, nearer water carriage, and altogether a more comfortable situation, especially for the officers. I went into the whole subject most carefully, and before leaving the Naga Hills I thought it right to record my opinion in a memorandum to the Government of Assam. This I did, pointing out as forcibly as I could the very superior advantages of Kohima, and urging most strongly that it should be adopted as our headquarters station in the Naga Hills. As I was only the officiating agent, I could not expect my views to carry as much weight as Captain Butler’s, but convinced as I was, I was bound to state them. The question was not settled for some years when Kohima was the site selected, and it has ever since been the headquarters station.
I had never got over the attack of fever I had in April, and as the rainy season advanced, and we were for days together enveloped in mist, I had constant attacks, with other complications, and as Captain Butler was coming out in November, and the doctor strongly recommended me to go to England again, I determined to apply for leave. My friend Needham had gone on leave to Shillong, so I could not think of starting till he returned. He was due at Samagudting early in November, and I prepared to leave then. It was with most sincere regret that we made arrangements for starting. We had got used to the discomforts of the place and had been very happy there and liked the people, and felt that they liked us; the cold weather too was just beginning and everything around us looked beautiful.
I had determined to march straight through the forest to Doboka, and thence take boat down the Kullung river to Gowhatty. It was a dreadful march to undertake, along a mere track untraversed by any European for years, but my wife liked the idea of it, and it was shorter than the route viâ Nigriting. On November 6th, we reluctantly said “good-bye” to all our kind friends at Samagudting and marched to Dimapur, where we halted next day to get all our things into order. Some of the chiefs of Samagudting accompanied us so far on our way and bade us a sorrowful adieu on the 7th. One old fellow took quite an affectionate farewell of our baby Dick. When I saw him again in 1879, he was blind, and one of his pretty little girls was dying.
We marched through dense forest on the 8th to Borsali, my wife riding and carrying the baby in her arms, there being no other mode of progression along such a bad road. On the 9th after seven hours’ actual marching, we reached Mohung Deejood, a place prettily situated on the banks of the Jumoona river with the last speck of the Rengma Hills standing out in high relief behind the village, but at some distance from it. Next day we again had a tiring march of eleven hours, including a halt for breakfast at a place called “Silbheta” where there are splendid waterfalls, and did not reach our halting place, Bokuleea, till 6 P.M. The last two marches had been through a country devastated by tigers which had literally eaten up the population; each day we passed deserted village sites. At Bokuleea we made rafts and floated down the river to Doboka, which we reached on November 13th.
Doboka is situated close to the hill of the same name and was a prominent object from Samagudting. There we took boats, and travelled in them down the Kullung river. We reached the junction with the Burrhampooter at daybreak on November 17th, and Gowhatty at midday. I was most thankful to see my wife and child safe in the Dak Bungalow after what was for delicate people a perilous journey, though an interesting and enjoyable one, through a country hardly ever traversed by European officials, and never by women and children. After a few days at Gowhatty to rest ourselves, we departed by steamer for Goalundo, arriving there early on November 29th, and immediately left for Calcutta, which we reached the same evening and went to stay with our kind friends the Rivers Thompsons, with whom we had travelled out to India in 1873. Glad as we were to be in civilised quarters once more after all our wanderings, we could not help regretting the kindly genial people we had left, and the beautiful scenery of the forest and mountain land, where we had lived so long and so happily.
On arrival in Calcutta, I went before the Medical Board, but not liking to go to England again so soon, I applied for three months’ leave to visit the North-West Provinces for change of air, and we visited Benares, Lucknow, Cawnpore, and other towns. I do not attempt to describe them, as it has been often done by abler pens than mine. The after symptoms of malaria increased, and it was vain to prolong my stay in India in the hope of a cure. The Medical Board said my appearance was sufficient without examination, so we left Calcutta by the next steamer, going by “long sea” to avoid the fatiguing journey across India to Bombay. After unusually rough weather in the Mediterranean and off the coast of Spain, we landed at Southampton, on March 9th, at 9 P.M., and went on to London next morning.
[1] I rewarded Kurum, and he distinguished himself later on.
Chapter VI.
Return to India—Attached to Foreign Office—Imperial assemblage at Delhi—Almorah—Appointed to Manipur—Journey to Shillong—Cherra Poojee—Colonel McCulloch—Question of ceremony.
Malaria, and all the evils that follow in its train, are more easily acquired than got rid of. Possibly two years in England, including four visits to Carlsbad, which high medical authorities seem to consider, and very justly, a sine quâ non, might give a man a good chance if he never again visited a malarious district, otherwise, my own experience shows me that two years are nothing. Every time I have gone before a Medical Board in London, preparatory to returning to duty, their last charge has been, “You must never again go to a malarious district!” Medical Boards propose, and Government and circumstances dispose.
I stayed at home in a high and healthy part of the Midlands, and left for India again in October. I arrived in Calcutta in November, where I again suffered from malarious symptoms; but I soon got better, and was attached to the Foreign Office, at my own request, extra attachés being required for the Imperial Assemblage.
I had the good fortune to see the whole of that gorgeous pageant, the like of which this generation will probably never witness again, under the most favourable auspices; and though I had on an average eighteen hours’ work out of each twenty-four, I was well repaid by being able to take part in it. I met many old friends, and also became acquainted with Salar Jung, Maharajahs Scindiah and Holkar, Sir Dinkur Rao, Madhava Rao, and several other now historical celebrities. The Viceroy’s reception-tent at night was a grand sight, filled with gallant soldiers, European and native, and great statesmen.
Among the new arrivals was the Khan of Khelat, an intelligent but savage-looking chief, with eyes all about him. I was being constantly deputed to carry polite messages from the Viceroy to different chiefs and celebrities and to meet them at the railway stations. Among those whom I met were the envoy from the Chief of Muscat, also the Siamese Ambassador and his suite, a highly intelligent and sensible set of men. I remember well the rough-and-ready way in which the younger Siamese officers looked after their luggage and effects. They were provided with a handsome set of tents, and all dined together at one table in European fashion, in the most civilised way, with the British officer attached to them.
I stayed at Delhi till the assemblage broke up, and after a few days in Calcutta with the Foreign Office, went to Bombay to meet my wife, who, with our two boys, arrived there on February 2nd. We at once set out on our way to Almorah in the Himalayas, where I was permitted to reside for a year and compile Foreign Office records.
We were delayed at Moradabad for a few days, as the passes were covered with snow. At last we started, and found Nynee Tal deep in snow, and the lake frozen. Next day we marched across the track of an avalanche, and the following afternoon reached the Almorah Dak Bungalow, or rest house. The ground was covered with snow, and the cold intense, the bungalow draughty and very uncomfortable. After a few days we got into a house, which Sir H. Ramsey, who was then out on duty in the district, had kindly taken for us, and I dived deep into my records, consisting of early documents relating to Assam and the Singpho tribes.
As the weather grew warmer, Almorah became very pleasant. I pined for active work, but our stay here gave my wife experience in the mode of life in India, for which she was afterwards very thankful, and she obtained hints on housekeeping subjects from other ladies, which were a help to her later on. Life in the Naga Hills was of course very different to what it is in more civilised parts of India.
The Foreign Office had my name down in their list for an appointment. I could have gone to Manipur when I landed in Calcutta, but was not well enough. In July, I had a telegram to say that Lieut. Durand, who had lately been appointed, was ill, and must be relieved. Would I go? I at once replied in the affirmative, and off we started on July 16th. It was very short notice, but changing quarters at short notice is part of an Indian official’s life, and the prospect of work was delightful to me. We had a trying journey down to Calcutta, as the rains had not begun in the North-West Provinces, and the heat was tremendous. However, we arrived none the worse for it, and stayed for a day or two with our kind friends, the Medlicotts.
As Colonel Keatinge, the Chief Commissioner of Assam, wished to see me before I went to Manipur, I was ordered to join at Shillong, so we proceeded by rail to Goalundo, one night’s journey from Calcutta, and thence by river steamer to Chuttuk, on the Soorma, where we changed into country boats, and proceeded up a smaller river and across great jheels or shallow lakes, often passing for miles through high grass growing in the water, which hid us from everything, till we reached a place called Bholagunj, situated on a river rapidly becoming narrower, where we again changed, this time into small canoes, the only conveyances that could take us up the rapids, with which the river abounds.
From Chuttuk we had come through a country mostly covered with grass jungle, twelve to fifteen feet in height; now we passed through forest scenery, very lovely fine trees, with festoons of creepers and flowers overhanging the stream. At last we reached Thuria Ghât, where the ascent of the hills commenced, and there we halted for the night in the Dak Bungalow, or rest house. Most places situated as Thuria Ghât is, would be deadly on account of malaria, but it seems to be an exception, and, as far as I have seen, healthy.
Knowing the servant difficulties in the province of Assam, we had brought servants with us from Almorah, men who had implored us to take them. When I consented to do so I voluntarily raised their wages from fifty to eighty per cent. above what they had been receiving, but with the exception of a Dhobee (washerman), and a bearer (a compound of housemaid and valet), they all became corrupted by the other servants they met at Shillong, and who spoke of Manipur in very disparaging terms, so before going farther I let them go, as they demanded an enormous increase of wages.
The Dhobee Nunnoo, and the bearer Horna, stuck to me to the very last, and proved admirable servants. It was fortunate that we had servants, as there were none at Thuria Ghât rest house; as it was, we managed very well, and were prepared to march in the morning before the coolies were ready to take up our luggage. We had a tiring march up the hill to Cherra Poojee; my wife and the children were in baskets on men’s backs, but I was on foot and felt the march in the intense heat to be very fatiguing, though we halted to rest half-way. However, when we reached the plateau of Cherra Poojee, 4000 feet above Thuria Ghât, the cool air speedily set me right, and we all enjoyed the scenery, hills, plains, waterfalls in abundance, deep valleys, and the lowlands of Sylhet, covered with water, as far as the eye could reach. We had a comfortable bungalow to rest in, and a cool night at last.
Next day we marched to Moflung, 6000 feet above the sea, and then to Shillong, where for the next few days we were hospitably entertained by the Chief Commissioner, Colonel (now General) Keatinge, V.C., C.S.I., who kindly sent a carriage to meet us on the road. As Colonel Keatinge wished me to remain at Shillong for a time, and meet Mr. Carnegy, political officer in the Naga Hills, who was coming there later on, I arranged to stay, and took a house; so we settled down comfortably till the early part of October—a very pleasant arrangement for us instead of facing the intense heat of the Cachar Valley in August. It gave me a good opportunity of looking over the records of the Chief Commissioner’s office, where I found much relating to Manipur, but I fear that it was lost when the Record Office was burnt down some years ago, the copies also having been destroyed in Manipur during the rebellion of 1891. At last the day for leaving came, and we packed up our things and prepared once more to set off on our travels.
Before leaving, I paid several visits to Colonel McCulloch, who, since retiring from the service, had established himself at Shillong, and asked his advice on many points, and learned much from him regarding Manipur. He very kindly gave his opinion freely on all questions, telling me where some of my predecessors had failed, and pointing out the pitfalls to be avoided. He added to all his kindness by writing to the Maharajah, and telling him that, from what he had seen of me, he was sure it would be his fault if we did not get on together.
Chapter VII.
Start for Manipur—March over the hills—Lovely scenery—View of the valleys—State reception—The Residency—Visitors.
Lowremba Subadar, an excellent old fellow, formerly in the service of Colonel McCulloch, was sent to Shillong to be in attendance on me, and of course to find out all he could about me and report the result. Before I left, he sent a note to the Maharajah of my requirements in the way of coolies, etc., for our long journey of ten days between Cachar and Manipur, and I also intimated that, as the representative of the British Government, and as one who well knew what was due to me as such, I should expect to be received with proper ceremony.
This was a point on which I laid much stress, as my experience had taught me that in a native state so tenacious of its dignity and ancient customs as Manipur, my future success depended in a great measure on my scrupulously requiring all that I was entitled to, and as much more as I could get. It had been a complaint against one of my predecessors that he had been discourteous, and I determined that the Manipuris should not have to complain of me on that score, and in my letters I took care to be as courteous and considerate as possible.
On former occasions it had been the custom for a new political agent to enter the capital unattended, and to call on the Maharajah the next day, the latter repaying the visit a day later. This I did not consider sufficient, and I determined that he should come out to meet me in state. When Colonel McCulloch returned to Manipur the second time, this had been done, Colonel McCulloch being an old and intimate friend of the Maharajah. I quoted this as a precedent. I tried in vain to get the Foreign Department to back up my request, but could not induce them to interfere on my behalf, so I took the responsibility on myself, and sent a formal demand to the Maharajah to send a high officer—a major commanding a regiment—to meet me on the road, and to meet me himself in state at a suitable distance from the capital. The result will be described.
All being ready we left Shillong, my wife, nurse and children on men’s backs as before, for Cherra Poojee, where we arrived the second day; thence, on the third day, we went to Thuria Ghât, on by boat viâ Bholagunj, to Sylhet and Cachar. We reached Cachar on October 17th, after passing the historical fort of Budderpore, where a battle was fought with the Burmese in 1825, and settled down in the bungalow of our kind friend Major Boyd who was away. Our coolies arrived on October 18th, and we again packed our things and prepared to depart on our final march.
We left Cachar for Manipur on October 20th, my wife and the nurse and boys in “doolies,” a kind of tray four feet long by two in width, with sides and ends eight inches in height, supported by two long poles running along the bottom of each side, and slung at each end to loose bars of wood carried on men’s shoulders. The passenger sits inside as best he can, and there is a light matting roof thrown over to protect him from the weather. To begin with, it is an uncomfortable and shaky conveyance, but in time one gets accustomed to it.
Our baggage was carried mostly on men’s backs, each load varying from sixty to seventy pounds in weight. Altogether we had, I daresay, one hundred coolies, as everything we required for a ten days’ journey had to be carried, in addition to personal baggage and stores for our use on arrival. I had provided a tent in case of need, but did not use it, as rude huts were provided for us at all the stages along the road. Our first halt was at Luckipore, in British territory, and, as usual, the first march was the most trying; for servants, coolies, etc., have to learn each other’s ways. I had an escort of one hundred men of the 35th Native Infantry, under a subadar, as it was expected that I might have to go on an expedition soon after my arrival, and these men had their own special coolies, so we were a large party altogether.
We halted at Luckipore, as I have said, a few miles from the Hoorung Hills and at Jeree Ghât. Next day we left British territory and entered Manipur, where we found some huts built for our accommodation. At Jeree Ghât the really interesting part of the journey commenced; thence, till Bissenpore in the valley of Manipur is reached, the traveller marches day after day over hills and across rivers. The first day from Jeree Ghât we crossed the Noon-jai-bang range, the summit of which is 1800 to 1900 feet above the sea from whence a fine view of the next range, Kala Naga or in Manipuri, Wy-nang-nong, is obtained. The road which was made under the superintendence of Captain (afterwards Colonel) Guthrie, of the Bengal Engineers between 1837 and 1844, at the joint expense of the British and Manipuri Governments, the former paying the larger share, was excellent for foot passengers and pack animals, but not wide enough and too steep for wheeled traffic on a large scale.
After descending from Noong-jai-bang we halted on the banks of the Mukker river amidst splendid forest, and next day ascended the Kala Naga range and halted on the crest close to a Manipuri guard house at a height of 3400 feet.
From this spot a magnificent view of the plains of Cachar is obtained, and in fine weather, far beyond them the Kasia hills in the neighbourhood of Cherra Poojee may be descried. The scene at sunset is sometimes magnificent. In the foreground the dark forests, and in the far distance a huge bank of golden clouds with their reflection in the watery plain, and a mingled mass of colours, green fields, purple, crimson, red and gold, all mixed up in such a way as no painter would ever attempt to copy. As the sun sinks those colours change and re-arrange themselves every minute in quick succession, and when at last night closes in, the impression left on the mind is one of never-ending wonder and admiration.
From Kala Naga to the Barâk river is a very stiff descent, calculated to shake the knees of an inexperienced hill-walker, and many is the toe-nail lost by the pressure of one’s boots. Here as at the Mukker and other rivers farther on, the Barâk is crossed by cane suspension bridges, which vibrate and move at every step. In the dry season these rivers are crossed by very cleverly constructed bamboo pontoon bridges, but when the rainy season has commenced, they become raging torrents, which nothing but a fish could live in, and but for the suspension bridges, all communication with the outer world would be cut off. The bridge over the Eerung river was one hundred yards in length, and like all the others, was, when I first went to Manipur, constructed entirely of cane and bamboo, and could by great exertions, be finished in three days. During my period of office, wire ropes were substituted for the two main cables on which all rested, and the strength of the bridges greatly increased thereby. It was an important part of my duty to see that both roads and bridges were kept in order.