A DURBAR IN BUXA
Notice of the Political Officer's approaching visit--A
Durbar--The Bhutan Agent and the interpreter--Arrival
of the Deb Zimpun--An official call--Exchange of
presents--Bhutanese fruit--A return call--Native
liquor--A welcome gift--The Bhutanese
musicians--Entertaining the Envoy--A thirsty Lama--A
rifle match--An awkward official request--My
refusal--The Deb Zimpun removes to Chunabatti--Arrival
of the treasure--The Political Officer comes--His
retinue--The Durbar--The Guard of Honour--The
visitors--The Envoy comes in state--Bhutanese
courtesies--The spectators--The payment of the
subsidy--Lunch in Mess--Entertaining a difficult
guest--The official dinner--An archery match--Sikh
quoits--Field firing--Bhutanese
impressed--Blackmail--British subjects captured--Their
release--Tashi's case--Justice in Bhutan--Tyranny of
officials--Tashi refuses to quit Buxa--The next payment
of the subsidy--The treaty--Misguided humanitarians.
Soon after our arrival in Buxa I received a letter from the Political
Officer in Sikkim, Tibet, and Bhutan informing me that he proposed to
visit our little Station and hold a Durbar there in order to pay over to
a representative of the Bhutanese Government the annual subsidy of fifty
thousand rupees. He requested me to furnish a Guard of Honour of a
hundred men for the ceremony. The news that Buxa was to rise to the
dignity of a Durbar of its own and be honoured with the presence of the
Envoy of a friendly State was positively exciting. True, neither the
Durbar nor the Envoy were very important; still, with them, we felt that
we were about to make history. The officer who has charge of our
political relations with these three countries resides at Gantok, the
capital of Sikkim, and, until recently, administered the affairs of that
State. Of late years the Maharajah has been admitted to a share of the
Government.
In Chunabatti lived two natives of Darjeeling, British subjects, who
were paid a salary by our Government to help in transacting diplomatic
affairs with Bhutan. They were officially styled the Bhutan Agent and
the Bhutanese interpreter. Their knowledge of English, acquired in a
school of Darjeeling, was not extensive; and their acquaintance with
Hindustani was on a par. They were men of a Tibetan type, dressed like
our Bhuttias, except that they wore a headgear like a football cap and
also gaily striped, undoubted football stockings.
Shortly after the receipt of the Political Officer's letter, one of
these men, the Agent, came to my bungalow one afternoon and informed me
that the Bhutan Government's representative had arrived in Buxa and was
lodged in the Circuit House. The Agent wished to know when I intended
paying an official call on this personage. I had sufficient acquaintance
with the ways of Orientals to be aware that this was an impertinence,
for it was the place of the Envoy to make his visit first to the officer
commanding the Station; but, like the Chinese, who have a childish
desire to assert their own importance on every occasion, he was
endeavouring to steal a march on me. So I assumed a haughty demeanour
and informed the Agent that I would be prepared to receive the Envoy at
my house in two hours' time, as he must first call on me. The Agent at
once agreed that this was the proper course, as, indeed he had known all
the time.
I sent an order to the fort for a native officer and twenty men to
parade in full dress at my bungalow in a couple of hours, and then
prepared to hold my first official reception. Punctually to the time
named a ragged procession of sixty bareheaded, barelegged Bhuttias,
armed with swords and every second man of them disfigured by an enormous
goitre, descended the road from the Circuit House. From my doorstep I
watched them coming down the hill. They escorted a stout cheery old
gentleman in dirty white kimono and cap and long Chinese boots. He was
accompanied by the Agent and the interpreter and followed by two coolies
carrying baskets of oranges. This was the Bhutan Envoy, the Deb Zimpun,
a member of the Supreme Council of Punakha and Cup Bearer to the Deb
Raja, when there is one. The Guard of Honour presented arms as I
advanced to meet and shake hands with him. I addressed him in
Hindustani; but the old gentleman grinned feebly and looked round for
the interpreter. The latter explained that the Deb Zimpun spoke only his
own language; but that he would interpret my greeting. I then formally
welcomed the Envoy to India, and invited him to inspect the Guard of
Honour, such being the procedure with distinguished visitors. He was
quite pleased at this and passed down the ranks, looking closely at the
men's rifles and accoutrements. He noticed that two or three of the
sepoys, who had been called from the rifle-range and had dressed
hurriedly, wore their pouches in the wrong place and pointed it out
to me. When he had minutely inspected the Guard I led the way into my
bungalow and begged him to be seated. He took off his cap politely, and,
sitting down, produced a metal box from the breast of his robe, took
betel-nut out of it and began to chew it. An attendant holding a
spittoon immediately took up his position beside him. The Agent and
interpreter stood behind us and translated our remarks to each other.
The remainder of the motley crew remained in the garden or crowded into
the veranda, scuffling and shoving each other aside in their attempts to
get near the open door and look in at us.
[Illustration: THE DEB ZIMPUN'S PRISONERS.]
[Illustration: "FROM MY DOORSTEP I WATCHED THEM COMING DOWN THE HILL."]
At first the conversation, consisting of the usual formal compliments
full of hyperbole, did not flourish; and the Deb Zimpun's eyes roamed
round the apartment as he gazed with interest at my trophies of sport,
pictures, photographs, and curios. When the interpreter had finished
explaining some extravagant phrase, the Envoy asked eagerly if I had a
gramaphone. He was visibly disappointed when I replied in the negative,
and said that he had seen one on a previous visit to India and was much
interested in it. To console him I took out my cigar-case and offered
him a cheroot, which he accepted and smoked with evident pleasure. I
asked him if he would like a drink; and the interpreter replied that the
Deb Zimpun begged for two whiskies-and-sodas. I wondered if he wanted to
consume both at once or thought that my hospitality stopped at one. But
when the drinks were brought by my servant, I found that they were
wanted by the interpreter himself and his friend the Agent, as the Envoy
did not like whisky. I am sure that the old gentleman never asked for
them at all; so it was a piece of distinct impertinence on the part of
the interpreter, who was only an understrapper. I was struck all the
time by the contrast between his casual manner to me, an officer of his
own Government, and his servile deference to the Deb Zimpun who treated
him as an individual altogether beneath his notice.
When the conversation again languished I produced some luridly coloured
Japanese prints of the capture of Pekin by the Allied Troops, which I
had bought in Tokio after the Boxer War. I thought that they might serve
as a useful lesson of the weakness of the Chinese, who endeavour to
intrigue against us in Bhutan. These gaudy pictures delighted the Deb
Zimpun. He asked to have all the details explained to him and seemed so
interested that I made a present of the prints to him to start a Fine
Art Gallery with in Punakha when he returned to the capital. This gift
quite won his heart. He called into the room the coolies carrying
baskets of oranges and brown paper bags of walnuts and presented them to
me. The fruit, which was grown in Bhutan, was excellent; and only in
Malta have I tasted better oranges. This terminated the visit; the Envoy
rose, accepted another cigar, shook hands, and took his departure.
Next day Creagh and I dressed ourselves in full uniform and, accompanied
by an escort of sepoys, proceeded up the hill to the Circuit House to
return the visit. We were met on the veranda by the Deb Zimpun and,
chairs being placed for us, we three sat down. The interpreter was again
present, being temporarily attached to the Envoy's suite. I learned that
the Deb Zimpun was allowed by our Government the sum of two thousand
rupees (about L133) for his expenses while he remained in India. He must
have saved most of this money; for I found that he lived chiefly on the
contributions, voluntary or otherwise, of the Bhuttias residing in our
territory.
A servitor came forward and filled two glasses with Bhutanese liquor
from a bamboo bottle. They were offered us; and my subaltern and I made
a heroic attempt to drink the nauseous-looking stuff. But the smell was
enough. The taste! A mixture of castor and codliver oil, senna and
asafoetida would have been nectar compared with it. We begged to be
excused, on the plea that we had been teetotallers all our lives. I then
ordered my present to be brought forward. It was a haunch of a _sambhur_
which I had shot two days before. The gift was a great success. The Deb
Zimpun's eyes glistened and he showed his teeth, stained red with
betel-nut chewing, in a gracious smile. His unkempt followers crowded
around us, looked hungrily at the meat, and seemed to calculate whether
there was enough to go round. The Maharajah of Bhutan, as a good
Buddhist, had recently decreed that for two years no animals were to be
slaughtered for food in his country. So this venison was a luxury to
them all. Before the excellent impression of our gift could die Creagh
and I rose to take our leave and departed hurriedly.
But we were not to escape so easily. Hardly had we reached the Mess on
our return when we were informed that the Deb Zimpun had, as a special
mark of favour, sent his two best musicians to play for us. So we came
out on the veranda and found two swarthy ruffians squatting in the
garden, holding silver-banded pipes like flageolets. We seated
ourselves and the performance began. I have patiently endured Chinese,
Japanese, and Indian music, have even listened unmoved to the strains of
a German band in London; but the ear-piercing, soul-harrowing noises
that these two ruffians produced were too much for me. We wondered, if
these were the Envoy's best musicians, what his worst could be like. I
hurriedly presented each of them with a rupee and sent them away, more
than compensated by the money for their abrupt dismissal.
On the following day we invited the Deb Zimpun to lunch with us in the
Mess and instructed our Gurkha cook to do his best, which was not much.
We found that our guest, having visited India before and having
accompanied the Tongsa _Penlop_ to Calcutta, was quite expert in the use
of a knife and fork, and enjoyed European fare. He was very temperate
and refused to touch liquor. But he was not imitated in this by his
suite. After lunch he told us that his lama, who was sitting with the
rest of his followers in the Mess garden, was anxious to taste whisky,
of which he had heard. We invited the priest in and poured him out a
stiff five-finger peg of neat Scotch whisky. The holy man smelled it,
raised the glass to his lips, and elevated it until not a drop was left.
He could not apparently make up his mind as to whether he liked the
liquor or not. So we offered him another glass. He accepted it and
disposed of it as promptly. We looked at him in astonishment; but it had
no effect on him. I told the interpreter to ask him what he thought of
whisky.
"I don't like it much; it is too sweet," replied the lama.
We officers glanced at each other; and the same idea occurred to us
all. It happened that some time before we had got a small cask of beer
from Calcutta, which, owing to the journey or the heat, had gone very
sour and tasted abominably. A large glass of this delectable beverage
was offered to the holy man. As he drained it a beatific smile spread
over his saintly but exceedingly dirty face and he put down the empty
glass with a sigh.
"Ah! that is good. That is very good," he said to the interpreter. "I
would like more."
So he was given another large tumblerful. Then, absolutely unaffected by
his potations, he left the Mess reluctantly. After this experience we
kept this beer, while it lasted, for Bhuttia visitors, and found it a
popular brand.
After lunch I brought the Deb Zimpun down to shoot on the rifle-range,
as he had expressed a wish to that effect through the interpreter. He
seemed to understand the mechanism of the Lee-Enfield and made some fair
shooting at a moving target at two hundred yards. When my score proved
better than his he said laughingly that the rifle was not the weapon
with which he was best acquainted, but that he would challenge me one
day to a match with bows and arrows. By this time the old man and I had
become quite friendly, and we had all taken a liking to him. He had
invited me to pay a visit to Bhutan and promised to obtain the
permission of the Maharajah for me to enter the country.
Consequently I was not pleased when next day I received a letter from
the civil authorities of the district informing me that the Deb Zimpun
was occupying the Circuit House without permission, and requesting me to
remove him and his retinue to Chunabatti. The Political Officer had
asked that he might be allowed to reside in it; but, as on a previous
occasion he and his followers had done so and left it in an absolutely
uninhabitable state, this permission was now refused. The letter stated
that it had cost two hundred rupees to clean the house and make it fit
for European occupation again. I thought that this was but a small sum,
after all, compared with the two thousand the Government were already
expending on him. And to turn the Envoy of a friendly State out of the
house he was occupying in all good faith seemed an insulting course. If
he refused to vacate it peaceably, I presume I was expected to use
force, which would probably result in bloodshed. As to the issue there
could be no doubt, as the swords and bows of his followers would be poor
things to oppose to our rifles. But it seemed to me that this would be
giving rather too warm a reception to an official visitor and guest of
the Government of India. So I refused to comply with the wishes of the
civil authorities, much to the relief of the Political Officer when he
arrived and was informed of the matter. He told me that had I acted
otherwise it would have given dire offence in Bhutan just at a time when
our Government were particularly anxious to be on good terms with the
Bhutanese. I only understood what he meant when, more than a year
afterwards, I heard of the signing of the treaty with the Maharajah,
which placed the foreign affairs of the country under our control.
But, unfortunately, the Agent had received the same instructions as I;
and, to avoid trouble, he induced the Deb Zimpun to go to Chunabatti and
reside in his home. The Envoy was very displeased at having to leave
the Circuit House. I offered to place the empty bungalow, known as the
Married Officers' Quarters, at his disposal; but the old gentleman,
though very grateful and thanking me warmly, declined, as he did not
want to make another move.
The day after our luncheon-party to the Deb Zimpun a detachment of
native police came from Alipur Duar escorting a train of coolies
carrying wooden boxes which contained the fifty thousand rupees of the
subsidy. These were handed over to me; and I placed them in our
guard-room under a special sentry. Lastly the Political Officer, Mr
Bell, arrived by train from Darjeeling, which is three days' ride from
Gantok. He was accompanied by a portly Sikkimese head clerk in wadded
Chinese silk coat and gown, another clerk and a couple of pig-tailed
Sikkimese soldiers in striped petticoats and straw hats like inverted
flower-pots ornamented with a long peacock feather.
On the day after his arrival the Durbar was held. On the parade ground a
few of our tents were pitched to form an open-air reception hall. A
Guard of Honour of two native officers and a hundred sepoys in their
full-dress uniform of red tunics, blue trousers and white spats, was
drawn up near it; and the boxes of treasure were brought down and
deposited on the ground beside the tents. The only outside visitors were
the nearest civil official, the Subdivisional Officer of Alipur Duar,
and his wife and children; the three British officers and the native
officers not required with the Guard joined them in the tents. Mr Bell,
wearing his political uniform, descended on to the parade ground from my
bungalow and was received with a salute by the Guard of Honour. Then to
the beating of tom-toms and the wild strains of barbaric music a double
file of Bhuttias advanced across the parade ground escorting the Envoy,
who was riding a mule. We hardly recognised our old friend. He was
magnificently garbed for the occasion in a very voluminous robe of red
silk embroidered with Chinese symbols in gold, and wore a gold-edged cap
in shape something like a papal tiara. At the tail of the procession
came a number of coolies carrying baskets of oranges and packages
wrapped up in paper.
In front of the tents the Envoy dismounted. The Political Officer came
forward to shake hands with him; and the Deb Zimpun threw a white silk
scarf around his neck. This scarf is called the _Khatag_ and is the
invariable Tibetan and Bhutanese accompaniment of a reception. It is
also sent with important official letters. Bell now presented each of us
formally to the Envoy, who shook hands solemnly and hung us with
scarves. The scene in its picturesque setting of mountains and jungle
was a striking one. The Political Officer in his trim uniform and the
British officers in their scarlet tunics were outshone by the gaudier
garbs of the Asiatics. The Deb Zimpun's flowing red robe, the head clerk
in his flowered black silk Chinese garb, the Sikkimese soldiers in their
bright garments and the Bhutanese in their kimonos, made a blaze of
varied hues. Along one side of the ground was the scarlet and blue line
of the Guard of Honour, the yellow and gold _puggris_ or turbans of the
native officers and the gold-threaded cummerbunds, or waist-sashes, of
the sepoys shining in the brilliant sun. Above the Guard the slope and
wall of the fort were crowded with the other men of the detachment in
white undress, mingled with native followers in brighter colours. Down
the other side of the parade ground was a long line of Bhuttia men,
women, and children.
[Illustration: THE DURBAR IN BUXA.]
When we were seated the Deb Zimpun produced a document accrediting him
as the duly appointed envoy and representative of the Bhutan Government
to receive the subsidy. This having been perused by the Political
Officer and his head clerk and the official seals inspected, the boxes
of money were formally handed over. The usual procedure was to have one
of them opened and the contents counted, but on this occasion the Deb
Zimpun accepted them as correct and ordered his escort to take charge of
them. They were hoisted on the backs of porters who took them off to
Chunabatti. Then coolies came forward with the Envoy's basket of oranges
and the packages, which we found to contain cheap native blankets worth
a couple of shillings each. Oranges and blankets were given to each of
us. But as the Government of India has made a strict rule that no civil
or military officer in its service is to accept a present from natives,
the blankets were taken charge of by Bell's clerks to be sold afterwards
and the proceeds credited to Government. We were allowed to keep the
oranges. This proceeding terminated the Durbar.
As the officers of the detachment had invited the visitors to lunch, we
now adjourned to the Mess. Although our guests consisted only of the
Envoy, Bell, the Subdivisional Officer, Mr Ainslie, and his wife and two
children, our resources were sorely strained to provide enough furniture
for them. The doctor had to sit on a box. The head clerk acted as
interpreter and stood behind the Political Officer's chair. A special
shooting-party having descended to the jungle the previous day to
replenish the larder, the menu was almost luxurious.
After luncheon the Ainslies departed to Santrabari, where they were
encamped, having declined our hospitality in Buxa. As Bell was desirous
of entertaining the Deb Zimpun himself, he had arranged a dinner to him
and us in the forest officer's empty bungalow that evening. So it
devolved on me to keep our old gentleman amused until dinner-time, while
the Political Officer wrote his despatches. I took our guest down to the
rifle-range and kept him busy there till sunset. Then we had to go to my
house, where I tried to entertain him by showing him old copies of
English illustrated journals. But these require a deal of explanation to
the untutored Oriental, who cannot understand the portraits of the
favourites of the stage in the scanty costumes in which they are
frequently photographed. And I was distinctly embarrassed by some of the
Deb Zimpun's questions.
At dinner-time Bell preceded us from my bungalow, where he was staying,
and was ready to receive us on the veranda of the forest officer's house
when, escorted by servants carrying lanterns, we toiled up the steep
path to it. Dinner was laid in the long, draughty centre room in the
rambling wooden edifice; and as the night was cold the apartment was
warmed by an iron stove. The furniture was scantier and worse than in
the Mess. When we sat down to table the Deb Zimpun's rickety chair
collapsed under his weight and sent him sprawling on the floor. It was
an undignified opening to our official banquet. The old man presented a
ludicrous spectacle as he lay entangled in his red silk robe with the
gold-trimmed papal cap tilted over his eye; but we rushed to help him up
and controlled our countenances until we found him laughing heartily at
his own mishap. Then one glance at our host's horrified expression set
us off. A fresh chair was with difficulty procured and we sat down
again.
After dinner we gathered round the stove in informal fashion and smoked,
the Deb Zimpun helping himself steadily to my cigars. With the aid of
the head clerk, who was present to interpret, the conversation grew
almost animated. Our old gentleman expressed himself deeply gratified by
the kindness he had received from the officers of the detachment,
particularly the offer of a military bungalow, and said that if he
returned to Buxa the following year he hoped to find us all there again.
Me he personally regarded as a brother. We drank his health, a
compliment he quite understood, and with difficulty refrained from
singing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow." When he departed we escorted him
as far as the Mess and bade him a vociferous "Good night," to the
amazement of the squad of ragged swordsmen and lantern-bearers who were
accompanying him back to Chunabatti.
Next day Bell left us to return to Sikkim; and we expected the Deb
Zimpun would also take his departure for Bhutan with the subsidy. But
day after day passed without any sign of his going, and we began to
wonder at his remaining after the purpose of his visit was completed. I
invited him to lunch with me again. One afternoon he appeared at the
head of his wild gathering, all of them carrying bows. He had come to
challenge me to an archery contest. We set up targets on the range at a
distance of two hundred yards. He defeated me easily, and chaffed me
gaily over his victory. To retrieve my honour I sent to the fort for
some Sikh throwing quoits, formerly used as weapons in war. They are of
thin steel with edges ground sharp, and when thrown by an expert will
skim through the air for nearly two hundred yards and would almost cut
clean through a man if they struck him fair. They ricochet off the
ground for a good distance after the first graze. We set up plantain
tree stems as targets, for the soft wood does not injure the edge. I
showed the Envoy how to hold and throw the weapon; but his first shot
went very wide indeed and nearly ended the mortal career of one of his
swordsmen. However, he improved with a little practice, and insisted
that all his followers should try the sport.
A day or two after this my detachment did its annual field firing. This
is a most practical form of musketry, consisting of an attack on a
position with ball cartridge, the enemy being represented by small
targets, the size of a man's head, nearly hidden behind entrenchments or
suddenly appearing from holes dug in the ground. I invited the Envoy and
his suite to witness it. The Deb Zimpun was deeply interested. He
followed us everywhere as we scrambled up and down steep hills firing on
the small marks dotted about between the trees, in the jungle and at the
bottom of precipices. The attack was arranged to finish up on the parade
ground where we could make use of the running and vanishing targets in
the rifle butts. The Bhuttias were immensely delighted with the
crouching figures of men drawn swiftly across the range and saluted
with bursts of rapid fire from the sepoys' rifles. But they broke into
an excited roar when our men fixed bayonets and charged the position
with loud cheers; and I looked back to find the Bhuttias following us at
a run, waving their swords and yelling wildly. When I went round to
inspect the targets and count the hits, the Deb Zimpun and his followers
accompanied me and were much impressed by the accuracy of the shooting.
They talked eagerly, pointed out the bullet-holes to each other, and
shook their heads solemnly over them. The interpreter told me that they
were saying that they would be sorry to face our soldiers in battle
after seeing the range, accuracy, and rapidity of fire of our rifles.
The Deb Zimpun returned with me to my bungalow and enjoyed a meal of
tea, cake, and chocolate creams as heartily as a schoolboy. On departing
he shook my hand and bade the interpreter express the interest with
which he had watched the field firing.
But alas for the inconstancy of human friendships! Our pleasant
intercourse was destined to an abrupt termination. The very next day I
was informed that the genial old gentleman had been levying blackmail on
Bhuttias residing in our territory and had seized and imprisoned in the
house in which he resided a man, three women, and three children,
intending to carry them off to Bhutan. The unexpected appearance of a
score of my men with rifles and fixed bayonets changed the programme;
and the prisoners were removed to our fort until Government should
decide their fate. As we marched them through Chunabatti the villagers
flocked round us and called down blessings on our heads for saving their
friends. One old lady, the wife of the male prisoner, fell on the
ground before Smith, who had accompanied me, embraced his legs and
kissed his feet, much to our medical officer's embarrassment.
Much correspondence and a Government inquiry resulted in the freedom of
the wretched captives. But before their release the Envoy, in response
to impatient letters from the Maharajah who was none too well pleased
with the delay in his return with the subsidy, marched off over the
hills to Bhutan without a farewell to us.
The case of the man who had been seized is a typical example of the
justice meted out in uncivilised countries. He was named Tashi and had
been born in Buxa before its capture by the British in 1864 and its
subsequent incorporation in our territory. After the war his family
retired across the newly made boundary. His father possessed land in a
village close to the frontier, which was in the jurisdiction of a
certain _jongpen_. He acquired more several miles away in a district
governed by another _jongpen_. On his death he left everything to Tashi,
who continued to reside in the first village. The second official
objected to this and eventually confiscated the land in his district and
applied it to his own use. When Tashi threatened to appeal to the
Supreme Council at Punakha he sent a party of his retainers to slay him
as the easiest method of avoiding litigation. When the other _jongpen_
remonstrated against this invasion of his district and proceeded to
repel it by force, his brother official pointed out to him that he could
not do better than follow the good example set him and seize Tashi's
remaining property. The advice seemed good; and the first _jongpen_
determined to kill Tashi himself. He sent several soldiers to put him to
death; but as they learned on arrival that the unfortunate owner of this
Bhutanese Naboth's vineyard had several stalwart sons and possessed a
gun, the gallant warriors contented themselves with establishing a
cordon round the village and sending for reinforcements. The luckless
Tashi realised that discretion was the better part of valour. He bribed
some of the soldiers to let him pass through the cordon at night and
with his family and five cows, all that he could save from the wreck, he
escaped into British territory. But the two Ahabs were not satisfied. It
was always believed that Tashi had managed to take some hoarded wealth
with him, although he lived in a poor way and worked hard for his living
in India. And this belief accounted for his capture on this occasion. On
previous visits of the Envoy he and his family had taken the precaution
to leave Chunabatti before his arrival.
After his release Tashi resolutely refused to quit Buxa.
"The Commanding Sahib is my father and my mother," he declared. "He has
saved my worthless life," for he had been informed that he would be put
to death as soon as he was out of British territory; "and I will not
leave his shadow, in which I and my family will dwell the rest of our
lives." However, he thought that this might not prove sufficient shelter
from the weather; so he built a bamboo house in the cantonment limits
and announced that he felt safe at last under our protection. Like all
Asiatics he considered that my interference on his behalf had
constituted a claim on me. However, as he was a useful man, I found
employment for him and allowed him to continue to reside in Buxa.
In the following year the Political Officer, accompanied by Captain
Kennedy, I.M.S., passed through Buxa on their way to Bhutan, where the
subsidy, now doubled, was paid in Punakha, the capital, and the treaty
by which the country was placed under British protection signed by the
Maharajah. So the Deb Zimpun and I never met again.
There is a certain type of individuals with malformed minds who moan
over the subjugation of the countries of barbarous nations by civilised
Powers. Do they honestly believe that the cause of humanity is better
served by allowing the noble savage to plunder and slay the weak at his
own sweet will rather than by subjecting him to the domination of
Europeans, be they French, Germans, Russians, Italians or British, who
guarantee freedom of life and property in the lands under their rule?
Liberty, with these barbarous races, means the liberty of the strong to
oppress the weak. Here, in the borderland of Bhutan to-day, the peasant
can till the soil, the trader enjoy his hard-earned wealth, where,
before the _pax Britannica_ settled on it, rapine, blood, and lust went
unchecked, where no man's life nor woman's honour was safe from the
fierce raiders of the hills. We hold the gates of India. Inside them all
is peace. Beyond them, oppression, injustice, murder!