EARLY DAYS AT MANDALAY
As speedily as possible, Mr. Bernard went up to Mandalay, leaving
Lower Burma practically under the administration of the Secretary, Mr.
Symes. He went up in the old R.I.M.S. _Irrawaddy_, embarking at Prome.
With him were a few civil and police officers, destined with those
who had accompanied the expedition to form the nucleus of the Civil
Administration. Colonel T. Lowndes,[86] Inspector-General of Police,
Captain C. H. E. Adamson,[87] of the Commission, Mr. G. M. S. Carter,
and Mr. M. J. Chisholm, of the Police, were on board, and I had the
luck to go as Junior Secretary. We landed at Minhla and inspected the
fort, now garrisoned by Bengal Infantry, and the scene of the fight;
at Myingyan, where we saw marks of our cannonade; at Pakôkku, where
the Chief Commissioner was received by the My̆othugyi-gadaw,[88] a
lady of large bulk, of high spirit, and of cheerful humour, who was
administering the town and district in the name of her son. The
old lady was extremely affable, and professed loyalty to the new
Government. To the best of her ability, I believe she carried out her
engagement. Her position was quite in accordance with the practice in
Burma, where, as already stated, women take a prominent part in public
affairs. She survived for some years, and was always our good friend.
On the 15th of December, 1885, Mr. Bernard arrived at Mandalay, and,
with his staff, took up his quarters in the Palace where Sir Harry
Prendergast and his officers were already installed. Mr. Bernard
occupied a set of rooms behind the Eastern Audience Hall. Colonel
Lowndes and I shook down in some good masonry buildings hard by, which
had been used as waiting-rooms by the Ministers coming to transact
business with the King. My abode was immediately under the wooden
tower in the south-east corner of the palace, whence Queen Sūpăyá-lāt
is said, the legend is apocryphal, to have viewed the march of the
British force from the shore to the city. Behind me was the shed of
the White Elephant, which had died a few days after the occupation,
feeling, no doubt, that his use was at an end. Opposite, fronted by
a pillared terrace, in the midst of which played a fountain, was
a charming pavilion faced with white stucco, of modern design and
construction, used by the King as a morning-room. Mr. Bernard adopted
it for the same purpose. We were all most kindly made honorary members
of the Headquarter Mess, established in spacious rooms adjacent to the
Royal Theatre. There, with the chief military officers, we dined every
night, and often played a quiet rubber. For breakfast and luncheon,
during his stay in Mandalay, Mr. Bernard kept open house for his staff.
Mr. Bernard’s breakfasts were refreshing interludes in the busy round
of official work. Round that hospitable board often sat welcome guests,
visitors of distinction, officers passing through Mandalay bringing a
breath of the old world to our new heritage. From time to time every
member of the Viceroy’s Council came to see the latest kingdom added to
the Empire. Perhaps the visitor who made the deepest impression was Sir
George Chesney, Military Member of Council, a man of wide culture and
literary distinction, moving on a higher plane than the ordinary Indian
official. (No offence to the ordinary official, honest man, whose stock
of late years has unjustly depreciated.) Sir George Chesney seemed
to have a wider range, a more extensive outlook; his premature death
deprived the world of a statesman. In very early days came to Mandalay,
as the Chief Commissioner’s guests, some charming Americans, among
them a lady of exceptional grace and beauty. Warned by secretaries
and aides-de-camp that she could not possibly go to Mandalay, where
conditions of war still obtained, she is said to have gone pouting to
the great Lord Sahib, by whom she was assured that she should certainly
go, and that her path should be strewn with roses. ’Twere churlish not
to believe this pretty story. My impression is that the men of the
party tried to buy the Palace as it stood, and succeeded in acquiring
a gilded sentry-box. I may wrong them.
Most strange and almost incredible it seemed to range at will the
halls and corridors, where hardly a fortnight before the Lord of many
White Elephants had kept his State. The Palace was in exactly the
same condition as when occupied by the Burmese Court. As a Burman
official said, in another place, the scene was the same, the actors
only were changed. Barbarous Byzantine mirrors of colossal size still
lined the walls; a motley heap of modern toys, French clocks and
fans, mechanical singing birds, and the like, mingled with lovely
specimens of Burmese carving, gold and silver and lacquered trays and
boxes, forming a heterogeneous collection characteristic of degenerate
taste. Rooms so lately tenanted by King, Queens, and their butterfly
attendants, aglow with light and colour, were now occupied as sober
offices and quarters. Khaki uniforms, boots, and the ringing of spurs
replaced gay pasos and tameins and soft pattering of naked feet. The
Palace, it must be confessed, was a mass of somewhat tawdry buildings,
mostly of wood and of no great antiquity, desecrated by corrugated
iron roofs, yet of interest as a unique specimen of Burmese domestic
architecture. Perhaps the most striking features were the great halls
of audience, supported by mighty pillars of teak, red and golden, the
several Royal thrones often described, and the Py̆athat, the graceful
terraced spire surmounting the eastern throne-room, which travellers
have been taught to call the Centre of the Universe. The title was
invented by an enterprising journalist, but will, no doubt, always be
cited as a mark of Burmese arrogance. Besides the rooms reserved for
the King, then occupied by Sir Harry Prendergast, the Palace afforded
accommodation for the Queens and for Ambassadors, attendants, pages,
maids of honour, and the usual entourage of an Eastern Court. For some
years the Palace continued to be inhabited. The King’s audience-hall
was used as a church; the corresponding hall on the west, the Queen’s,
as a club house. A few of the buildings on the Palace platform were of
masonry work, built for the King by some of the foreigners who swarmed
at the Burmese Court. Like the famous A-tu-ma-shi[89] monastery, these
made no pretence of being in Burmese style, and were grievous to the
æsthetic eye. In the Palace enclosure was the Council Chamber where the
Hlutdaw[90] deliberated. Opposite was a model of the Kyaung,[91] where
King Thebaw spent his novitiate. This also was for some time used as
a church. All round the Palace were charming gardens, intersected by
watercourses, with many a grotto and pavilion, where gay young Princes
and Princesses, pages and maids of honour, idled away the pleasant
hours. Girdling and protecting the Palace and its precincts was an
inner wall of masonry, and round this again a palisade of stout teak
logs. The main gates of the palace corresponded with those of the city.
Just within the eastern gate stood a white tower, the Bohozin, whereon
was a mighty drum, the Bohozi, struck by hereditary beaters to record
the hour and to assure the world that the King was in his palace.
After the occupation, the beaters fled. We were gravely warned that
the silence of the Bohozi would be interpreted as a sign that anarchy
prevailed and that there was no Government. The beaters were sought
out and reinstated. As soon as the periodical sound of the drum was
heard once more, we were solemnly advised that this would never do. The
beating of the Bohozi indicated that the _Burmese_ Government still
existed, and that we were merely temporary sojourners. So the beaters
were retired on suitable terms, and the Bohozi was sent to the Phayre
Museum. I need hardly say that it did not matter a brass farthing
whether the drum was beaten or not.
The Palace stood in the middle of what we came to call the city.
Built on somewhat high ground about three miles from the shore, the
city (myo) was a perfect square, surrounded by a rampart of earth,
battlemented walls, and a moat on which water-lilies floated in lovely
profusion. Each face of the walls measured one mile and a quarter.
Between the walls and the moat was a stretch of turf, as if expressly
provided for a morning gallop, but somewhat spoilt by sudden holes.
Five great gates, two on the west, one on each other side, opened
through the wall, each approached by a bridge over the moat. At every
gate was a red wooden pillar, with an inscription recording the date
and circumstances of its erection. Stories, which we need not believe,
are told of the burial of living victims beneath these pillars. Within
the city walls, all round the palace, the space was closely packed
with Burmese houses. Here were the dwellings of Ministers and other
high officers, each surrounded by an ample compound (win) where lived
a whole village of relations and retainers. Here also were the humbler
dwellings of minor officials, soldiers, and the miscellaneous rabble
collected about an Eastern Court.
Now all is changed. The Palace remains a melancholy memento of Burmese
sovereignty. The halls are tenantless, and the footstep of the
infrequent visitor rings hollow on its floors. A fragment of the teak
stockade is preserved. The rest is replaced by a neat post and rail
fence. All the native houses have disappeared. The space within the
walls is occupied by barracks, mess-houses, dwellings, polo-ground, and
the like. The last Burmese house, now removed, was that of the Kinwun
Mingyi.
[Illustration: THE CITY WALL, MANDALAY.]
The town, as distinguished from the city, extended to the river on the
west and to Amarapura on the south, peopled mostly by non-officials
living in wooden houses and bamboo huts, with here and there a white
masonry building, the dwelling of an Indian trader. In the midst was
the great bazaar, the Zegyo. An embankment protected the low-lying land
from the river in flood. Through the town crept the Shwe-ta-chaung, a
malodorous stream, on whose banks still stood the old British Residency
in a grove of tamarind-trees. While in the city the roads were straight
and hard, the streets of the town were unmetalled, alternately dust
and mud. The first work undertaken by the army of occupation was the
construction of four roads to the shore. With military simplicity, but
perhaps with some want of imagination, these were called A, B, C, and
D Roads, names which still cling to them. To the south was the Yakaing
Paya, commonly called the Arakan Pagoda, the shrine of the great image
of Gaudama Buddha, brought across the hills from Arakan. Second only in
interest to the Shwe Dagôn Pagoda, it attracted throngs of pilgrims.
In one of the courtyards reclined battered bronze statues of magic
virtue. If you had a pain, you rubbed the correspondent part of one of
these statues, and obtained relief. In a neighbouring pond were sacred
turtles, who came at call to be fed.
East of the city rose the Shan Hills, with the little hill of
Yankintaung[92] alone in the middle distance. The evening glow
reflected on the Eastern Hills misled the unobservant to rhapsodize on
the beautiful effect of the sun setting behind Yankintaung. North stood
Mandalay Hill, a cool and pleasant height, ascended by stone steps or
by a winding bridle-path; near its pagoda-covered summit towered a
stately upright statue of the Buddha, his right arm extended towards
the city, as it were the palladium of the capital. At the foot lay
the A-tu-ma-shi (the Incomparable Monastery), a large white masonry
structure of modern design, built by an Italian. Here sat another
colossal image of the Buddha, in whose forehead sparkled a diamond of
unequalled size and lustre.[93] Hard by stood the Ku-tho-daw Păya,[94]
surrounded by a multitude of small shrines covering alabaster slabs, on
which was inscribed the Law of the Buddha. This pious work commemorated
its founder, the Einshemin, Mindôn Min’s brother, who lost his life
in the rebellion of the Myingun Mintha in 1867. Gone now are the
Incomparable Monastery and the statue on the hill, both accidentally
destroyed by fire some years later.
In December, 1885, the situation in Mandalay, and, indeed, in Upper
Burma generally, was very curious. Sir Harry Prendergast was in supreme
military command. Colonel Sladen was the chief civil authority. The
future of Upper Burma was still under discussion between the Chief
Commissioner, the Government of India, and the Secretary of State
(Lord Randolph Churchill). It might be decided to annex the country,
or it might be thought better to set up a new King, and to make Upper
Burma a protected State. Pending the decision, an attempt was made
provisionally to carry on the Government on the same lines as before
the occupation. Although the King of Burma was an absolute, not a
constitutional, monarch, there was a Council of State (the Hlutdaw), an
advisory and executive body with no legislative powers. It consisted
of the Wungyis, or Mingyis, the four highest officers of State;
four Atwin Wuns, high officers of the Palace; and four Wundauks,
props or assistants of the Wungyis. Under their orders was a crowd of
secretaries or clerks (Sayedawgyi). The country was governed by Wuns,
each of whom administered a local area, and received orders from the
Hlutdaw collectively, or from individual members thereof. Mandalay was
in charge of two Myowuns (town magistrates), the Myowun U Pe Si,[95]
and the Shwehlan Myowun. Temporarily, the Hlutdaw was maintained in
its powers and functions, the place of the King being taken by Colonel
Sladen. There was one important innovation. Over all was the Chief
Commissioner. The Hlutdaw issued a proclamation to all Wuns and local
officers, directing them to carry on their duties as before under
the command of the Central Government. British officers in charge of
districts Captain Eyre at Pagan, Mr. Robert Phayre at Minhla, Mr.
Collins at Myingyan, Mr. Fleming at Shwebo were not subordinated to the
control of the Hlutdaw. Mandalay also was removed from their control.
At first Mr. Fforde[96] as District Superintendent of Police, then
Captain Adamson as Deputy Commissioner, with Mr. Fforde as his chief
aid, were in charge. These officers received most valuable help from
U Pe Si, who threw in his lot with the new Government, and served it
loyally and well for the rest of his life. U Pe Si was one of the most
interesting characters of the annexation period. Of an established
official family, his grandfather having been one of the signatories of
the Treaty of Yandabo in 1826, he was a man of courage and resource,
well fitted to be the colleague of British officers. His knowledge
of Mandalay and the surrounding district was intimate and extensive.
His mind was acute and his judgment sound. At sixty, so old and frail
in appearance that he was once introduced to a high officer as “the
Yenangyaung Mingyi over ninety years of age,” that fragile frame was
informed with dauntless will and resolution. He maintained the closest
relations with a succession of Deputy Commissioners and Commissioners
of Mandalay. His practice was to drop in to breakfast and consume vast
quantities of jam, to the detriment of his poor digestion, as an aid to
the delivery of wise discourse on men and things. Without him the task
of governing Mandalay, difficult at the best, would have been still
more arduous.
Our early sway was of a patriarchal type. The theory that the penalty
should be made to fit the offence was adopted by an ingenious
magistrate who knew his Burman. An instance recurs to me worthy of
Shahpesh, the Persian. Some gamblers were brought up for judgment.
“So you like cards. Will you play a game with me?” said the magistrate
genially. “Please draw three cards.”
Two aces and a two were shown.
“What a lucky man! Take four stripes.”
The next man drew two kings and a five.
“Your luck is not so good. Receive twenty-five stripes.”
And so on, to the delight of the public, and, we may hope, of the
players. Another accused in the same case, hung about with cards and
dice and other instruments of gaming, was paraded through the streets
with his face to the tail of the pony on which he sat.
Colonel Sladen had the royal temperament, and was prepared to set right
all the wrongs done by his predecessor. In pursuance of this policy he
restored to the Yenangyaung Mingyi and the Pintha Mintha respectively
all their property which had been confiscated by the King. As soon
as these orders came to his notice, Mr. Bernard imperatively forbade
any further similar restitutions, rightly holding it impossible to
investigate the acts of the Burmese Government in exercise of its
sovereign powers. The Yenangyaung Mingyi, then verging on ninety,
was a valued Minister of King Mindôn, and had been wounded in the
Myingun Prince’s rebellion. On that occasion, as I heard from the lips
of an eyewitness, King Mindôn was attacked by his disloyal son in a
summer palace near Mandalay Hill, and escaped borne on the back of
a faithful attendant. The Mingyi had fallen into disgrace with King
Thebaw, doubtless because he was father of the Kyimyin Mipaya,[97]
one of Mindôn Min’s lesser wives, who had borne the King a son, the
Pyinmana Mintha.[98] In the massacre of 1879 this child’s life was
spared, probably on account of his extreme youth; but he and his mother
and her family all remained objects of suspicion, and were kept in
confinement by the Burmese Government. Soon after our arrival the boy
was discovered, and sent to India and educated at an English school.
After 1905 he returned to Burma and settled in Rangoon, where he still
lives on excellent terms with our officers. Restored to favour and
fortune, the Mingyi often came to see me, walking sturdily in spite of
his years, and usually accompanied by two small sons of about eight
or nine. The Pintha Mintha was the brother of Yanaung Maung Tôk,[99]
already mentioned as the roystering companion of King Thebaw. These two
titular Princes were sons of another Yenangyaung Mingyi, of romantic
history. Sprung from humble stock, as a small boy he attracted the
notice of a Princess. She adopted and educated him, and made him one
of the royal pages. Conspicuous for grace and courtesy of manner,
and, probably also for ability, he went on from rank to rank till he
became successively Atwin Wun, and, on his death-bed, Mingyi. Though
not of royal blood, his sons were given the title of Mintha, as it
might be Prince Bismarck or Prince von Bülow. Yanaung Maung Tôk had
the repute of being a blustering, truculent ruffian. If that was so,
Pintha Maung Byaung alone inherited his father’s gracious qualities. I
knew him well. A pleasanter, more courteous, more polished gentleman
could not be found. His wife, who, I regret to say, died last year,
was of a good official family, and a lady of exceptional charm. Their
sons are doing well in Government service. Their daughters, delightful
young girls in their early teens, glittering with diamonds and rubies,
created a sensation at the celebration of Queen Victoria’s Jubilee in
1887. All three married well, but only one survives, the happy wife of
a very distinguished Burmese officer.
It was natural that for some time after the occupation there should
be much confusion. But at the very outset means might have been taken
for the preservation of the State Records; instead of which, in the
time-honoured phrase, soldiers were allowed to play havoc with these
documents; many of them were burnt, many more were torn and spoilt.
The loss was irreparable. Immediately after the Chief Commissioner’s
arrival further destruction was stopped, and the surviving records were
collected and deposited in the Council Chamber. Much of interest was
thus preserved, but many State papers of priceless value, historically
and administratively, were irretrievably lost.
The Burmese of Mandalay did not in the least recognize that they
had been conquered. They were as free and easy and unconcerned and
bumptious as if the King was still seated on the throne. The first
task set me in Mandalay, the day after our arrival, was to find a
Mohammedan doctor who was believed to have arrived lately from Bhamo.
This was literally all the direction or clue given to aid me in a
search among nearly 200,000 strange people. Not even the man’s name was
known. Colonel Sladen kindly placed at my disposal a small Burmese
official, and as we rode out of the South Gate my companion was hailed
by a friend and asked where he was going with the young barbarian
(kala). My Burmese was fluent and vigorous. However, though I liked
not the manners of his friend, my man was an intelligent, willing
fellow, and before the winter sun had set we found and brought back the
object of our mission. Later on, when much distress had been caused
by fires, incendiary and accidental, the Burmans of Mandalay grew
rather sulky. But nothing cured them of their _insouciance_. When fires
were destroying their dwellings, they looked on quite calmly without
offering to lend a hand, while British officers took extreme risks to
save life and property in burning houses.
“There is a very valuable box in that house” (in a blaze). “Would
you mind bringing it out for me?” I heard a Burman say to a British
officer, who complied with the cool request.
At this time we were almost completely cut off from Lower Burma and
Rangoon. The telegraph line was interrupted, while letters came slowly
by steamer once a week. Postal arrangements were necessarily of a
primitive kind. The post-office was a flat, or barge, high and dry
on the river-bank. When a steamer came from Rangoon, the mail-bags
were opened and their contents cast on the deck of the flat. We who
had hastened down on hearing of the steamer’s approach were allowed,
even invited, to search the pile and take what belonged to us. In
spite of this apparently hazardous procedure, I heard of no letters
going astray. I quarrelled quite seriously with a high officer of the
post-office because I said in his hearing, incautiously and, I confess,
unjustly, that I was sending letters to Rangoon by messenger rather
than trust them to the post. For some months, if not years, we were
unfriends; but I am glad to say that, in the course of time, we were
reconciled.
[Illustration: ROW OF BUDDHAS.]
[Illustration: RELEASING A TURTLE; A WORK OF MERIT.]
I was soon taken from Secretariat work and sent as civil officer with a
column. A detachment of Madras Cavalry without support had been sent to
repair the telegraph line between Ava and Myingyan. They had met with
resistance and been forced to return. The task was then entrusted to an
adequate force. Two guns, British infantry, Madras Cavalry, and Madras
Pioneers were placed under the command of Major Fenwick, I.S.C. Captain
R. A. P. Clements[100] was staff officer; Mr. H. d’U. Keary[101] and
Mr. Rainey[102] were of our party. At Ava, where we halted before
starting on our march, Maung Hlwa, the local Wun, came in and made his
submission, among the first-fruits of Burmese loyalty in that part of
the country. Maung Hlwa, I am glad to say, still survives and draws
his pension. He was an official of the good old Upper Burman type. Not
over-educated, without very delicate scruples, of proved courage, with
boundless personal influence (awza), wherever he was sent he was a
loyal and useful servant of Government. No better man than he to bring
a troublesome township into order. He was one of the Burmese officers
who went to the Coronation Durbar at Delhi in 1903, where he was deeply
impressed by the pomp and splendour of the occasion. On this march he
was of the utmost service, though I am not quite sure that he did not
take advantage of the opportunity to pay off some old scores. So quiet
seemed the country and so little did we expect attack that I used to
ride for miles along the river-bank and through the jungle at Ava with
no other companion but Maung Hlwa. Yet within a month, at Sagaing on
the opposite bank, four officers were attacked within sight of the
Government steamer _Irrawaddy_, and three of their number slain by
dacoits who issued from ambush, cut down their victims, and disappeared
before the rest of the party, walking not a couple of hundred yards
behind, were aware of what had happened. The fall of Mandalay had been
so sudden that it had not yet been realized in rural places, and the
forces of opposition had not yet been organized. Very soon the turmoil
began. It was then long before officers were able to travel without
escort in Upper Burma.
This was one of the first daurs, or small expeditions, undertaken.
Keeping close to the telegraph line which it was our primary duty to
restore to working order, we marched through the midst of the Ava
subdivision. In fine open country we rode daily over sessamum fields
or through tall growths of millet, making our first acquaintance with
the land where so much of our lives was to be spent. The climate was
cool and pleasant, so that we were able to march far into the morning.
At the village where the cavalry had been routed we were so hospitably
received that, to the best of my recollection, no punishment for past
misdeeds was inflicted. We were particularly touched to find here two
Madrasi sayces,[103] cavalry followers who had been missing since the
engagement, and who had, in fact, been wounded and disabled. They had
been plastered and nursed by the villagers, and were restored to us
none the worse for their adventure. Not much farther on we found a
crucified man falling to pieces after long exposure to sun and wind. I
believe it was customary to kill the victim before affixing his body to
a St. Andrew’s cross. In early days, after a successful skirmish with
dacoits, a Burman assistant approached the civil officer, saying as a
matter of course: “I suppose it is time now to crucify the prisoners!”
Incidents like these illustrate the charming inconsistency of the
Burmese character already noted.
Later on in our march we were resisted at two villages and had two
little fights without, I think, any casualties on our side. After
all the people had been cleared out, the first village was burnt for
reasons of military necessity. Rightly enough, the burning of villages
has always been discouraged, indeed, strictly forbidden, save as an
extreme measure or for military reasons. But, when occasion arises, it
is very interesting to put a match to a thatched roof and see it blaze
to the sky. The second village had to be shelled. Clements and I,
who had ridden round to examine one of the farther approaches, found
ourselves in the unpleasant position of being shelled by our own side.
There I saw an instance of the stoical resolution with which Burmans
meet death. A man torn to pieces by a shell asked only for an umbrella
to shield him from the sun and a cheroot to smoke while he awaited the
end. Both were supplied while our surgeon afforded such relief as might
be. Here is another inconsistency. By a shout and the explosion of a
cracker, a band of dacoits[104] will put to flight all the men of a
village, who stampede, leaving the women and children at the mercy of
the assailants. Dacoits themselves go to work with trembling knees and
hearts of water, ready to fly at the first sign of resistance. Yet men
of the same race and class face a firing party with a smile or walk to
the gallows with unfaltering step. Once, at a military execution, some
half a dozen dacoits were put up, one by one, against the city wall to
be shot. The first man had the top of his head blown off by the volley.
His companions awaiting their turn burst into a laugh at his grotesque
appearance.
A day or two after Christmas we halted at My̆otha in the middle of the
Ava subdivision and there held the first gymkhana in the jungle of
Upper Burma. Pony races and other sporting events for officers and men
and for local Burmans made up the programme. It was a characteristic
episode. The people of My̆otha were very friendly and joined with
enthusiasm in the proceedings. Here I confirmed in his office the
My̆othugyi.[105] I am told that he still holds the appointment. After
leaving My̆otha, we had our third and last encounter with dacoits.
Captain Clements and Mr. Rainey took a few sowárs[106] to escort a
telegraph working-party a few miles from our camp. So unexciting
seemed the prospect that the rest of us stayed behind. Some of us
walked unattended to a neighbouring village and sat for a long time
talking with the headman and his people. The working-party and the
escort were met by a hostile line of Burmans armed with muskets.
Followed by the sowárs, the officers charged and routed the enemy,
but Clements fell with two holes in his chest. No wonder the surgeon
looked grave. A bullet in each lung, God shield us, is a most dreadful
thing. However, a fortnight afterwards I found Clements quite active
at mess at Tha-yet-my̆o. I infer that his pony swerved at the volley
and that the two holes were made by the same bullet. In Burma Clements
got another wound and two brevets. He served with great distinction
in South Africa, and after passing through many campaigns was cut off
by appendicitis at Quetta in the midst of a brilliant career. A fine
officer, a perfect horseman, with a frame of iron, even in youth he
gave promise of future eminence.
Another unfortunate incident was an outbreak of cholera in our camp,
which brought us to a halt for some days and cost valuable lives.
A stalwart young sergeant of gunners was specially regretted. A
halt on account of cholera is one of the most gloomy and depressing
experiences, particularly for the men. It was with somewhat chastened
feelings that we marched into Myingyan. Our one consolation was that
we had accomplished our purpose and reopened telegraphic communication
with Rangoon.
Meanwhile the Kinwun Mingyi, who had gone with the ex-King, had
returned to Mandalay, and the Taingda Mingyi, the evil genius of the
dynasty, had been sent to Hazaribagh. Mr. Bernard was convinced of
the Taingda Mingyi’s active disloyalty. It was notorious that, in the
King’s time, he fomented disorder and shared the spoils of dacoity.
There were reasonable grounds for believing that he continued these
practices and that his power was exerted against the Government. To
retain this man in a leading position on Colonel Sladen’s Council, or
even to allow him to stay in Burma, deprived of office, in a private
station, was fraught with grave risk. In Mandalay his influence was
supreme. His speedy removal without previous warning seemed clearly
desirable. This was dramatically effected. As the Mingyi sat in the
midst of the Hlutdaw, Mr. Pilcher entered and summoned him to the Chief
Commissioner’s presence. Arriving there, he was told that he was to be
sent to India. His request for permission to go to his house before
leaving was refused. Seated with Mr. Pilcher in a bullock-carriage, he
was driven to the shore. As he passed out of the West, the Traitors’,
Gate, there was a block, and the carriage halted. “Is this where you
are going to kill me?” asked the old man. Under the provisions of
the beneficent Regulation III. of 1818, the Mingyi was detained for
several years. Long after the country had been at peace, he was allowed
to return and end his days in Burma in receipt of an allowance from
Government. He was a man of much force of character, comparatively
uneducated, and, unless his face and common fame belied him, of harsh
and cruel nature. That protruding under-lip and that glance, stern even
in old age, were signs of a fiery and turbulent soul. After his return
he did no harm, and, having lost his wealth in foolish speculations,
he died a poor man. I helped to get a small pension for his widow, an
innocent old lady, who was, I believe, sincerely grateful. The pension
was granted as an act of grace, not out of respect for the Mingyi’s
memory.
About this time I went on one more little daur, perhaps hardly worth
mentioning. Dacoits were entrenched in the Kaung-hmu-daw Pagoda,
not very far from Sagaing. A column, with Colonel Lowndes as civil
officer, was sent against them. Another column, which I accompanied,
started at the same time and went up the river. We were to hold a
defile in the hills and cut off the retreat of the dacoits dislodged
from Kaung-hmu-daw. The arrival of the main body at Sagaing was marked
by the lamentable incident already narrated.[107] Next morning,
as arranged, the pagoda was attacked and the defenders driven out.
The rest of the plan miscarried. Our intelligence was grievously at
fault. The only pass in the hills, we found, ran from east to west.
Through it we marched at the mercy of any hostile force which might be
crowning the heights. Emerging scathless from this gorge, as no one
took advantage of so fair a chance, we reached a wide champaign over
which an army corps might have scattered without coming near us. That
Sunday morning we had a pleasant picnic on a breezy down, and towards
nightfall we marched back, having seen no one worse than ourselves.