TAVOY.
“Like a dull actor now, I have forgot my part.”
The somewhat tedious journey up the river was to an extent beguiled
by a review of our recent experiences, which, if not unique, were by
no means commonplace. My friend, taking up the parable, contrasted our
present position with what might have been, if he had perforce returned
alone.
He made one of the longest speeches I ever heard from him, which for
obvious reasons I shall not reproduce; remarking, _inter alia_, that
he would not have had the courage to face the others without me, and
making an unwarrantable pun about the bruising of my sole!
As originally arranged, the time of my departure was now drawing nigh.
In two days more the steamer that had brought us would take me back,
and I should make a fresh start from the “whited sepulchre,” only in
the reverse direction.
Once again my plans were altered. Sitting on a jetty one evening we saw
the “mail” boat let go her anchor just opposite us. As all letters were
to remain with my agents until my return, I had nothing to look forward
to; and I therefore proposed that we should go on board and hear the
news. We therefore hailed a boat, and were soon in the midst of all the
commotion of letting off steam, orders and counter-orders. My friend
found an old acquaintance in the captain, and while they were talking
I drew aside to watch the busy scene that was being enacted.
I was then introduced to Captain B., who, after the customary
observations, said: “Our mutual friend has informed me of the dilemma
in which you were placed by the breaking down of the Straits boat. I
am off with the mail to-morrow to Tavoy and Mergui, and if you will
give me the pleasure of your company, I’ll make you as comfortable as
I can.” I accepted the invitation without more ado, merely suggesting
that I thought it would be more reasonable if I were permitted to—, but
he interrupted me, insisting that I should come as his guest, or not at
all.
The arrival of the English mail with letters and newspapers six weeks
old, always creates a flutter among Europeans in the East, everyone
waiting impatiently for his own budget. In the arrangements even of the
“Post” the ways of the East are exactly opposite to those of the West,
for, instead of having the letters, etc., delivered, we send a trusty
man for them.
Dinner was just over when that worthy arrived with a goodly load,
the contents of which soon found their way into the hands of their
respective owners. I was left out in the cold, and would have
given a trifle for certain communications; nevertheless, under the
circumstances of my original arrangements, it would have been mere
folly to have had them sent from pillar to post all round the Bay
of Bengal with a great risk of losing them. A friend handed me a
newspaper, and on opening it, almost the first news I saw was the death
of a very dear member of the family. I was aboard the _Pluto_, with my
small belongings early next morning, and had not long to wait ere we
got under weigh and steamed down the river. She was a beautiful boat,
built on graceful lines, combining speed with beam, and well armed,
and employed by Government for every available purpose during peace and
war; but she seemed “a cut above” carrying mails and stores.
In his desire to make me comfortable the skipper attempted to give up
his own cabin, but I rebelled at this, and warned him against spoiling
me at the outset. I reminded him, moreover, that I had grown accustomed
to adversity in the East, and had probably many a stony path before
me, and to give me a bed of roses to lie upon now would but make me
feel the thorns more keenly afterwards. My arguments prevailed, and he
contented himself with giving me the free run of the ship.
Rounding the lighthouse, our course lay to the southward, parallel
to the land, which I do not think we ever lost sight of. Verdure-clad
hills skirted the shore, while here and there a pagoda glistening in
the sun betokened the proximity of an isolated village. The country was
known to be sparsely populated, and in such places only where a river
debouched on the sea. Of actual life we saw none; no boats, nor man,
nor beast.
The changing scene was delightful, and I did not for a moment regret
having accepted the invitation on the spur of the moment. Years of
experience have shown me that such decisions turn out, as a rule,
better than those arrived at after the process we are pleased to
call deliberation. We are told to “look before we leap.” _Cui bono?_
when none of us can see a hair’s breadth into the future. Moreover,
thinking over anything generally confuses nine men out of every ten,
and the judgment of man, in whatsoever direction he may exercise it,
almost invariably arrives at an erroneous decision. No; as far as my
individual experience goes, instinct, viewed in the light of subsequent
events, has throughout been safer than reasoning, while I regret not
having acted on first impressions on several memorable and critical
occasions.
We continued our southward course for a time, when the ship’s head was
suddenly turned due east, and we were evidently making for a river.
For some time I could distinguish no opening, having but a landsman’s
powers of observation; but at length a fissure appeared in the
otherwise unbroken line of mangrove forest which marks this coast, and
ere long we were in the river that flows past Tavoy. I at once noticed
that it was very much narrower than the Salween, more muddy, and also
more rapid, cutting its way through the web of mangroves, that alone
prevented the earth silting up the river and forming the usual bar at
its mouth.
I may, _en passant_, mention a peculiarity of the seeds of this plant;
and that is, they enjoy the power of germinating while still attached
to the tree; the radicle, bursting through the covering, imbeds itself
in the mud, and is followed in due course by the seed.
Some species of mangroves are sweet and palatable, and the wood of some
of them is hard enough to be in demand for a variety of purposes, while
others are rich in an inferior quality of tannin.
The generality of rivers are characterized by the graceful curves
described by their winding course; but this one formed an exception,
indulging in an eccentric abruptness, depending, of course, on the lay
of the land.
At one time it looked as if we were running right on to the bank; and I
was expecting to hear the familiar “Let go the anchor!” when I noticed
that the river turned sharp round to the nor’ard. Still we kept our
course, until the bowsprit was right over the low, open land! I was on
the bridge at the time, but I did not dare say a word to the captain,
whose energies were concentrated on this trying and hazardous piece of
navigation. I was clutching at the railing, almost unable to endure
the suspense a moment longer, when suddenly the helm was altered,
the bowsprit described an arc of 90°, and we were steaming up a deep
channel parallel with the shore.
I could not help congratulating the captain on this masterly piece of
steering; and he acknowledged that he always turned his back on the
river with relief, as it was the worst he had to navigate in any of his
voyages.
Tavoy was one of those small stations dotted about the Tenasserim
provinces, which we held with a handful of men, so as to prevent any
awkward mistake as to the actual ownership of the country. It was now
occupied by part of a Madras regiment. As evening was descending upon
the scene, I saw but little of the native town, and still less of
the military quarters, which were so nestled among the trees as to be
for the most part undistinguishable. At the best it must have been a
very dreary, isolated spot, shut out from the rest of the world, and
offering officers and men the dubious delights of penal servitude. It
doubtless resembled Pegu in one particular, the facilities afforded
for saving money, besides which it must, in the dry season, have been
a veritable El Dorado to the sportsman. But then it is not everyone
in whom dwells the spirit to go forth and shoot! In the days, too,
of which I am writing, men were sent out to the East at sixteen or
seventeen years of age, and rarely acquired a musical or scientific
turn, so their resources in such a place were indeed limited. The
educational structure was built on the primitive model; classics and
mathematics were regarded as its foundation, plinth, superstructure,
and roof; history, geography, and a smattering of French, were
embellishments, and music, drawing, and science, would do at any time!
Here, as elsewhere, the twelve mail days in the year were looked
forward to with longing, and their dates written up in letters of gold.
One mail every month! The present generation cannot comprehend such a
state of affairs; neither could we understand the conditions obtaining
in Hindustan under Clive.
And yet in this matter, having to wait thirty days for each batch of
news, the wind was, to some extent, tempered to the shorn lamb, for we
had not yet arrived at the high-pressure age. Not only did the events
of a year occupy less space and importance than do those of a month
nowadays, but before the spread of steam and electricity half the
events actually enacted never came to light.
Now, on a declaration of war being ventured, millions are brought
into the field, in lieu of thousands, and campaigns that formerly
occupied years are (now) a matter of weeks. A Revolution breaks out,
and the entire order of Government is reversed in four and twenty
hours. Accidents by sea and land are alarming in their frequency, and
appalling in their magnitude; murders, committed on the slightest
provocation, are known in our furthest possessions almost ere the
victims are cold, and are served up in various ways by a sensational
press. One by one, too, the various grades of the working classes are
quarrelling with their bread and butter, set on by agitators, who eat
the grain, leaving their sheep the husks.
Endless divorce cases, from the lowest rung to the top of the ladder,
fraught with momentous and unlooked-for consequences, disfigure every
newspaper. Speculation, which seems to have reached its furthest limits
in every direction, is producing commercial panics; and on every side
our affairs are trembling in the balance. Garbage is plentiful, and
sensational events so unintermittent that it is surprising how editors
still find the need of drawing on their inventive faculties!
If Tavoy existed at the present day under the old _régime_, few
Europeans would survive the ordeal beyond a mail or two.
The captain was evidently not enamoured of the place; he took time by
the “fetlock,” landed the mails and cargo, and made everything ready to
be off early next morning. As soon as sufficient light dawned upon us
we backed to that “unriver-like” bend, and were soon out at sea again.
Of all the places I ever stopped at, Tavoy remains enveloped in the
most impenetrable haze, so far as my recollection of it is concerned.
Times without number I have tried to conjure it up in detail; but
beyond fragments of buildings, a dense mass of vegetation, and a few
natives, I can make nothing of it. I fear, therefore, that the heading
of this chapter may be taken as somewhat misleading; it will serve,
however, as a halting-place, before the more interesting portion of the
trip, with which I shall take leave of the reader.
What I do remember of the place is being struck with the fact that none
of the officers came on board, whereas the rule is for them to come off
in anything that will float as soon as the anchor is let go.
They resided but a short distance from the jetty, alongside which we
were anchored; and it was therefore all the more curious that they
should be conspicuous by their absence. Perhaps they did not care for
such ephemeral excitement; what after all was a steamer to them as
long as she landed the mail and mess-stores? Perhaps, too, the ordeal
was too much for them; I myself knew the envy and misery attendant
on seeing off a friend “homeward bound;” straining one’s eyes after
the ship that drops slowly down to the sea, and then returning to
purgatory!
It is almost as bad as leaving home afresh, without the mitigating
pleasures of anticipation.
Tavoy, as a whole, apart from any individual characteristics which
may have distinguished its town, certainly struck me as a spot where
those native to the place and “to the manner born,” might lead a very
peaceful existence. Nature had placed within their reach a supply of
delicious food, to be had without the asking. The bright green leaves
of the plantain rose up in every direction, growing and multiplying
unaided, besides bearing huge clusters of fruit all the year round.
The glossy, thick-leaved Jack-fruit was also conspicuous; palms reared
their tufted heads aloft, among them the much esteemed cocoa-nut,
useful in more ways than one; there, too, the leafy tamarind stood
waving its pinnate foliage in the evening breeze, proof against the
scorching rays of the sun, even at midday.
The women, as elsewhere, sat under their houses, busy with the looms,
on which they spun garments of many colours and gorgeous design. The
buffaloes grazed around, enjoying a peaceful existence, until summoned
to the periodical contest in the arena. They found no lack of food,
and were kept at night in a strong enclosure, secure from the prowling
tiger.
Rice and tobacco were the principal articles under cultivation,
requiring little trouble and insignificant outlay of capital.
Yes, the aborigines must have led a happy, contented life in such a
place; while the European grumbled, growled, and vilified everything,
after the manner of his kind.