RECOLLECTIONS OF THE MADRAS PRESIDENCY
In May 1859 I left Calcutta, having been appointed to command the Royal
Artillery in the Madras Presidency. Speaking generally, the affairs,
both civil and military, of Southern India had remained for many years
in a condition of comparative inaction and tranquillity. Indeed, ever
since the great campaigns towards the close of the last century, ending
with the fall of Seringapatam and the death of Tippoo Sahib, the tide
of war had drifted away to the north-west, and the Madras army had thus
been deprived of much active experience in the field. Fortunately,
even the Mutiny had failed to entangle the southern native troops in
its disastrous meshes. As a term, perhaps, of undeserved reproach,
Madras was often called the benighted presidency. Shortly before my
arrival a new Governor, Sir Charles Trevelyan had been appointed, and
being a man of great energy and ability, soon succeeded in temporarily
galvanising the administration into unwonted life and activity. His
somewhat abnormal qualities were not, however, generally appreciated.
One of his first efforts was to improve the sanitary condition of the
large native city, which stretches for a mile or two along the flat,
sandy, surf-beaten shore. During the latter years of the last century
the city had been enclosed on its land front with a series of old
bastions and curtains and a continuous stagnant ditch--works which were
intended as a defence against the hordes of Mahrattas and Pindarees who
were then in the habit of swooping down on our cities and settlements.
But these hostile races had long ceased their swoopings and lootings,
and the decaying fortifications were not only obsolete, but by their
existence prevented a due circulation of light and air, and were highly
insanitary. Sir Charles accordingly decided on their entire removal,
and the conversion of the vacant space and of the ancient glacis into
a People's Park. The idea was received with considerable scorn. Few
people in Madras had ever heard of people's parks in those days. I,
however, had the satisfaction of being present at the destruction by
successive explosions of the old, useless bastions, and in my opinion
the Governor conferred a great benefit on the city by his enlightened
policy. More serious events, however, soon followed.
When the Mutiny came to an end, its financial bearings and the enormous
expenditure incurred, not only on account of the large reinforcements
from home, but also in the arrangements which had been necessary
for the due prosecution of active operations all over the country,
pressed heavily on the Government of India; and it became an urgent
duty to meet the financial deficit, which amounted to several millions
sterling. Amongst other measures it was decided to introduce an income
tax. Sir Charles Trevelyan, backed by his council, protested against
such a policy. In his opinion, an income tax, in the condition of the
native feeling, was likely to revive dangerous discontent; further
than this, he argued in successive despatches to Calcutta that, as
the Mutiny was over, the proper way of meeting the deficit was by
a reduction not only of the English reinforcements, but also by
disbanding many of the new native regiments which had been hastily and
temporarily raised during the crisis. Finding that his remonstrances
were in vain, he at length published the entire correspondence in one
of the Madras daily journals. As Governor of a presidency containing
fifty millions of people, he considered it his duty that his views
should be made public. The result was that in a few days he received a
message by telegraph from Sir Charles Wood, the then Secretary of State
for India, announcing his recall. Whether the Governor acted with due
discretion in the measure he took to ensure publicity for his views,
may be questioned; but, in my opinion, he was perfectly right in his
main principle that, the crisis being over, the financial equilibrium
could best be attained, not by unusual and obnoxious taxation, but by a
reduction of the enormous military expenditure, the necessity for which
had passed away, and which was eating up the resources of our empire in
the East. His recall was a public misfortune.
Soon after my arrival in Madras I made the acquaintance of an old
colonel, who had served many years in the country and was an excellent
officer, but who, owing to absence of mind or partial loss of memory,
had great difficulty in correctly remembering people's names. For
instance, one morning he came into the club, and told us that he had
just met Sir John Trelawney taking a walk in the park. As there was no
one of that name in Madras we were rather puzzled, but on inquiry found
he alluded to the Governor, Sir Charles Trevelyan. That was harmless
enough, but on another occasion he fell into a more serious error. It
occurred in the Neilgherries. There was a lady residing there, a Mrs.
Coffin, the wife of a general officer. It is the fashion up in the
hills for ladies to be carried about by coolies in a sort of sedan
chair, called a tonjon. One afternoon, the general's wife was paying
a visit to a neighbour, where she met the colonel, and on her rising
to take leave the old officer jumped up, and, meaning to be extremely
polite, said, 'Mrs. Tonjon, allow me to hand you to your coffin!'
Military service in the tropical climate of the Madras Presidency in
time of peace, and with the thermometer never below 80 degrees, is
not an exhilarating experience. There were no railways to speak of
in those days, and no bridges over the rivers, so that during tours
of inspection I had constantly to pass many weary days and nights in
travelling hundreds of miles, along bad roads, over dusty plains, in
what is called a bullock bandy, at the rate of two miles an hour, not
including accidents, and probably without meeting a single Englishman.
On one occasion, I went from Madras northwards by steamer along the
coast to Masulipatam, on my way to the Deccan, and found the tomb of an
old Dutch admiral, the inscription on it being as follows:
HIER LEYT BEGRA VEN DEN. E. JACOB DEDEL
[Illustration]
IN SYN LEVEN RAET VAN IN DIEN ENDE OPPER HOOFT TE WATER ENDE TE LANDE
OVER DE NEDER LANTSE NEGOTIE DE SER CUST CORMANDEL. OVER LEDEN. DEN.
29. AUGUSTY ANNO. 1624.
(Here lies buried E. Jacob Dedel, in his lifetime Councillor of the
Indies, and Commander-in-Chief on sea and land, over the Dutch Company
of the Coromandel Coast. Died, 29th August, 1624.)
During 1862 I was in command of the artillery at Secunderabad, a large
station near Hyderabad in the Deccan, the latter city being supposed
to contain a somewhat turbulent dangerous population, but who in
reality gave no trouble. The monotony of life was occasionally varied
by hunting wild animals in the hills and jungles. Although a very bad
shot, I took part in the sport on two special occasions. The one was
in pursuit of a bear, and the other of a tiger. In the first case
we rode by night to some distant hills, and were posted in the dark
behind rocks by the shikarree; and, being a novice, I was given the
place of honour, the native kindly remaining at my side, and explaining
that the cave of the bears was just above and behind me, and that at
daylight I should find several coming straight up the hill on their
way home. Sure enough, as day dawned, two large black objects appeared
leisurely crossing the plain, snuffing about, as they slouched along,
and presently they began the ascent. The critical moment had arrived,
and, on a signal from the shikarree, I fired, and the bears immediately
bolted. The shikarree threw up his hands, and, much disappointed,
said that my shot had missed. It was not so, however, for on going
to the spot we discovered traces of blood, and were able to track
the wounded animal up the hill to his home--a dark, narrow, steep
cleft in the rock. Here a consultation was held, and it was decided
by the experts that we must follow up the track, and enter the den.
A procession was formed accordingly. First came a coolie with a long
lighted torch, which he waved about and pushed into the crevices; then
I followed, crawling on all fours with a gun on full-cock ready for all
emergencies. Two or three companions came on similarly prepared. All at
once we heard a scream and a rush, and I was about to fire at anybody
or anything, and should probably have killed the coolie, when it turned
out to be merely a bat fluttering against the lighted torch. The smell
of bears, bats, rats, and other creatures was horrible. Still we
struggled on, until the narrow tortuous passage gradually ramified into
large fissures, and we then discovered that the bear had passed out of
its home by another opening, and so escaped. The adventure ended, and
we were glad to crawl back into the open air again.
The other expedition was also exciting in its way. In hunting tigers
in Bengal it is the custom to be seated in a howdah on the back of an
elephant, so as to stamp through the jungle and shoot the animals from
a commanding position in comparative safety. In Madras, however, it
is considered fairer to advance on foot, on the principle, I presume,
of giving both sides a chance. One afternoon we were again conducted
by the shikarree to a distant hill, and on an elevated plateau were
all posted in a large semicircle, each hidden behind a rock, and in
the centre a young kid was tied to a stone. The expectation was that
the tiger would come to eat the kid, and then we were all to fire and
kill the tiger. As this was my first experience, I inquired, with some
interest, whether possibly the animal might not approach from behind,
and begin to eat me instead of the kid. The suggestion, however, was
scouted, and I was assured that it would much prefer the latter. So we
took up our positions, and remained on watch. After a time the young
goat, finding the entertainment dull, laid down and tried to go to
sleep; but the shikarree advanced and with a knife cut a small slit in
its ear, which made it bleat piteously; and this, it was hoped, would
afford an additional attraction. Again we waited, and I could not
refrain from occasionally looking over my shoulder, to assure myself
that the expected wild beast was not surreptitiously altering the
programme. It was getting dark when a breathless coolie arriving from
a distant hill, brought the news that the tiger was asleep in a cave a
long way off; so the kid escaped, and we all went home. I thought the
sequel rather flat.
Society at Secunderabad was occasionally enlivened by amateur
theatricals in the assembly rooms, and, being fond of painting, I was
induced on one occasion to produce a drop-scene for the stage. One
afternoon I was seated accordingly, in some old clothes, on the top
of a step-ladder, with a large brush and a bucketful of sky-blue,
attempting to produce some lovely cloud effects, when a private soldier
of the 18th Royal Irish strolled in smoking his pipe. After admiring
the scenery for some time, and evidently taking me for a professional,
he remarked: 'I say, guv'nor, is that a good business out here?' My
reply was, 'No, it isn't a very permanent affair, but I like it.' Then
he went on, 'I think I've seed you afore' (which was probable). 'Was
you ever engaged at the Surrey in London?' I said that I had been at
that theatre, but had never been engaged. 'Well, then, I _have_ seed
you afore,' he continued; 'you was acting the part of Belphegor.'
What play he was alluding to I had no idea, or who Belphegor was, but
unfortunately at that moment a brother officer casually looked in and
said, 'Well, Colonel, how are you getting on?' The soldier at once took
in the situation, stood up, saluted, and saying, 'I'm thinking I'm in
the presence of my sup_a_riors,' faced about and left the room. The
drop-scene was finished, and was considered a great success.