THE FIRST YEAR AFTER THE ANNEXATION
The task of constituting the new Administration and of reducing the
country to order was rendered especially difficult by the rigid economy
at first contemplated by the Government of India. In the discussions
during the Viceroy’s visit it is understood that frugality was declared
essential. With the loyalty which in him, as in Sir Arthur Phayre,
rose almost to a passion, Sir Charles Bernard did his utmost to carry
out the wishes of Government. Beyond doubt or dispute, a burden far
greater than any man should be asked to bear was placed upon the
Chief Commissioner’s shoulders. Yet the Titan never showed signs of
weariness. There were to be no Divisional Commissioners; district
officers were to work under the Chief Commissioner’s orders. The
provision for police, especially military police, was quite inadequate.
The Secretariat staff was plainly insufficient. No one but Sir Charles
Bernard, with his immense power of work, his loyal enthusiasm, his
marvellous memory and mastery of detail, could have attempted the
task. And the effort was beyond even those exceptional powers. In
the first year of the occupation Sir Charles Bernard, for some time
single-handed, organized and directed the administration of the new
Province, doing the work of three ordinary men, dealing as far as
possible immediately in police matters with the Inspector-General, in
forest matters with the Conservator, keeping close touch and on the
most friendly terms with the military authorities, keeping also in
personal contact with every district officer, guiding, encouraging,
seldom admonishing. Throughout this year of labour and anxiety he was
hardly a week free from severe and painful illness. Almost from the
beginning he was the target of malicious and venomous attack. With an
inadequate though loyal and efficient staff in the districts; with
scanty funds doled out by the Imperial Government, which then, as
ever, treated Burma with unsympathetic parsimony; under the depressing
effects of illness, the object of ignorant and unscrupulous detraction,
the work done by Sir Charles Bernard in that first year, when order
began to be evolved out of chaos, has never been properly appreciated
in public. But no civil officer who served in Upper Burma in that year
fails to recognize the heroic work done by his Chief, or to remember
the support and encouragement received from him in times of trouble,
doubt, and confusion. No military officer of standing forgets the
loyal co-operation of the civil power as represented by the Chief
Commissioner. Sir Charles Bernard could not remain in Burma to complete
his work. He laid a sound basis for the restoration of order and
the building up of the fabric of settled government. The report of
the year’s work issued at the end of 1886 was a record of which no
Administration need have been ashamed.
As might have been foreseen from the first, it was soon found
impossible for the Chief Commissioner directly to control the
affairs of every District. Upper Burma was therefore partitioned
into Divisions, and Commissioners were appointed. In June, Mr. H.
St. G. Tucker, C.S., became Commissioner of the Eastern Division,
with headquarters at Ningyan (Pyinmana). This division was more
remote from Mandalay than any part of the Province as yet sought to
be administered; there was no communication with it by water, and
neither road nor rail was yet in being. In August and September three
other divisions were constituted. Mr. G. D. Burgess, C.S., became
Commissioner of the Northern Division; Mr. F. W. R. Fryer,[136] C.S.,
with a great reputation from the Punjab, assumed charge of the Central
Division, both for a time residing at Mandalay; Mr. J. J. Digges La
Touche,[137] C.S., from the North-West Provinces, was posted to the
Southern Division, with headquarters at Minbu. With some adjustment
of local limits, these Divisions still subsist. Their names have
been changed, not, I think, for the better, and in most cases the
headquarters have been shifted. The appointment of these officers
afforded the Chief Commissioner appreciable relief.
Having taken over an area twice as large as Lower Burma, Sir Charles
Bernard was confronted with the task of finding officers to administer
it. Obviously the existing staff could not be stretched to cover the
new Province and provide equipment for the old Province as well. For
the Commission civilians were sent from other provinces, military
civilians were recruited, and appointments were offered to men in
various departments or not yet in Government service. In each of these
alternatives there were advantages and disadvantages. Civilians from
other provinces, though versed in the art of administration, were
ignorant of the language and customs of Burma. Military civilians,
excellent material, needed some training in civil work. Officers of
other departments and non-officials recruited in the Province knew the
language and the people, but had no acquaintance with administrative
methods. The last-mentioned defect is probably regarded by many as
imaginary. While for other arts and professions a laborious education
is necessary, we all know that government and administration are gifts
of the gods and come by nature. We are all familiar with brilliant
amateurs in administration, who know their work far better than those
trained to the business from their youth. The Commission was thus a
composite body, probably not so supremely excellent as that which
undertook the settlement of the Punjab under John and Henry Lawrence,
but full of ability and zeal. The Civil Service, the Army, and what
were then called the Uncovenanted Services, furnished officers of
conspicuous merit, who in the years immediately succeeding the
annexation and in later times did invaluable work. Without making
invidious distinctions or offering presumptuous criticisms, I may
mention of the early new-comers Mr. H. P. Todd-Naylor,[138] Mr. J.
George Scott,[139] Mr. H. A. Browning,[140] Mr. B. S. Carey,[141] and
Mr. H. M. S. Matthews.[142]
The officering of the civil police was one of even greater difficulty,
the pay and prospects being far less attractive. Some officers were
drafted from other Provinces. Many adventurous young gentlemen flocked
to Mandalay, eager to take part in the settlement of a new Province.
Of these some were appointed to be inspectors, some to be even head
constables, with a prospect of obtaining gazetted rank in the course
of time. Most of them did excellent work, fully justifying their
selection. From time to time some were transferred to the Commission.
The majority had a hard and disappointing life, waiting long for the
realization of their dreams. The story of the Burma Civil Police is one
of hope deferred, and of weary plodding through many dismal years. It
is greatly to the credit of its officers that they did well under such
depressing conditions.
In the first year, at least, the bulk of the actual work of pacification
was done by the army of occupation. Sir George White was in command,
brave among the brave, cheeriest of companions, loyalest of friends,
the warrior whom every man in arms should wish to be. Chief of his
Staff was Colonel Prothero,[143] who worked all day and night without
turning a hair, whose gay serenity nothing could ruffle, whose motto
might have been:
“Still to be neat, still to be dressed
As always going to a feast.”
In the course of the summer, Sir Herbert Macpherson, V.C.,[144] came
over to exercise general control. After his lamented death, the
Commander-in-Chief in India himself, Sir Frederick Roberts, spent some
months in Burma, occupying the summer-house in the Palace garden where
the King surrendered, giving to civil and military administration the
support of his authority, the strength of his wise counsel. Gradually,
as the area of settled government extended, the country was covered
with a network of small military posts, more than a hundred being in
existence at the end of the year.
In these months came the first two military police battalions, raised
by Mr. Loch and Mr. Gastrell.[145] The Mandalay battalion, which I
knew best, attracted the flower of the Punjab. Under Mr. Gastrell’s
excellent command it became a thoroughly efficient force, conspicuous
among the large body of military police which garrisoned the country
in subsequent years. These military police played an important part
in the pacification. Their behaviour was most praiseworthy. Several
battalions later on were converted into regular regiments of the Indian
Army, called at first Burma Regiments.
For civil administration the Province was parcelled out into Districts,
at first twelve, afterwards seventeen in number, each in charge of a
Deputy Commissioner, with such Assistants as could be provided. In
some cases military commandants of outposts were invested with civil
powers, and did much useful work in a civil capacity. Every effort
was made to enlist local Burman officials under Government, and many
became My̆o-ôks and rendered valuable service. But it was impossible
to induce higher officials to leave Mandalay, and to take part in the
settlement of out-districts. The effort was made and failed. One of
Sir Charles Bernard’s first acts was the preparation and promulgation
of a set of instructions to civil officers, an admirable compilation
embracing in a small compass all the rules necessary at the outset
for the guidance of his subordinates. That was all the law we had in
Upper Burma till the end of November, 1886. As an instance of the care
taken to prevent hasty and harsh measures, it may be mentioned that
all capital sentences had to be referred to the Chief Commissioner for
confirmation. When Commissioners were appointed, the duty of confirming
these sentences was delegated to them.
The chaos to which the country was reduced, and the confusion which
prevailed under the Burmese Government, rendered the task of
settlement extraordinarily difficult. The country was overrun with
dacoit bands, ranging in numbers from five to five hundred. The names
of the leaders, Hla U, Bo[146] Cho, Bo Swè, Ôktama, Shwe Yan, became
household words. For some of the dacoit movements there was no doubt a
slight political move. A few scions of the royal stock who had escaped
the massacres of 1879 set up as pretenders to sovereignty, while here
and there men of humble origin assumed the style of royalty and raised
the standard of revolt. But as a rule, from the deeds and aspirations
of these robber bands genuine patriotism was conspicuously absent.
Most of the gangs consisted of dacoits pure and simple, whose sole
object was plunder and rapine, who held the countryside in terror, and
committed indescribable atrocities on their own people. Where-ever
there was an appearance of organized resistance, Buddhist monks were
among the chiefs. No political movement of importance has been without
a monk as the leading spirit.
The story of the pacification has been told fully, vividly, and
accurately by Sir Charles Crosthwaite.[147] It is not my purpose to
attempt to tell the story again. In the first year the work proceeded
slowly, but within limits effectually. Many dacoit leaders were killed
or captured, and the elements of regular administration were introduced
into several districts. Revenue, of no enormous amount, it is true,
was collected; the country was covered with telegraph lines; useful
public works were undertaken. The early months were clouded by the loss
in action of Robert Phayre, a promising civilian;[148] the autumn was
saddened, for me most of all, by the death from fever, in Kyauksè, of
Robert Pilcher. A master of their language, and sincerely in sympathy
with them, Pilcher was exceedingly popular with the Burmese. The first
time I ever saw a man literally beat his breast for grief was when I
told the good old Taungtaya-ngasè Bo[149] the sad tidings of his death.
Since then I have seen men and boys beat their breasts and shed real
tears at the recital of the tale of Hassan and Hussein[150] at the
Mohurram. Pilcher was a scholar with a touch of genius; his early death
was a loss to the State.
[Illustration: A BURMESE FAMILY.]
Among the homely virtues of the Burmese must be counted respect
for parents. This is inculcated in the Sacred Books, and forms a
really pleasing phase of family life. Two nephews of the Taung-gwin
Mingyi, one of the Council of Ministers, were giving trouble in the
Ava district. It was suggested to the Mingyi that he should use his
influence to induce them to surrender and make peace with Government.
“Certainly,” said the Mingyi; “I will send for their parents and put
them in my dungeon and afflict them till their sons come in.” It was
not possible to approve this crude proposal, but the Mingyi was told
that he might ask the parents to stay with him, and talk kindly to them
about their erring children. The young men submitted in a week, and
gave no further trouble. In Sagaing a famous Bo, Min O, was captured.
His life was forfeit for many crimes; but he was an old man, and two
of his sons were at large, leading dacoit bands. Word was sent to them
that if they did not surrender, their father would be hanged; but if
they gave themselves up, his life would be spared. Both came in. It
will no doubt surprise some people to learn that the promise to spare
Min O’s life was kept.
In the early days of April, 1886, there seemed to be a lull in the
storm. The time of the Burmese New Year approached, always a time of
some anxiety, when, if ever, disturbance may be expected. Perhaps this
had not yet been realized. The exact moment on which the New Year
began was calculated by the Pônnas,[151] who, besides officiating
at weddings, were also the royal astrologers.[152] The time was to
be announced by the firing of a cannon from the Palace enclosure.
On that April morning the astrologers assembled in the courtyard of
the Palace. The head seer drew a line in the dust, planted a small
stick, and declared that when the shadow of the stick reached the
line the auspicious moment would have come. At the precise instant I
made a preconcerted sign, and the cannon was fired. It might have
been arranged as the signal of revolt throughout the country. On that
day all the principal military posts in Upper Burma were attacked,
doubtless in pursuance of a definite plan. Next morning my servant
woke me rather early with the intimation that “the enemy were at the
gate.” At dawn there had been a serious attack on the city of Mandalay,
swarming with troops, by a band of some twenty or thirty rebels
acting in concert with a few confederates within the walls. Inside
the city two unlucky medical subordinates were killed, and within and
without incendiary fires were lighted. The fire spread even to the
Palace enclosure, and we were in some anxiety for the main buildings,
which, once alight, would have burned like matchwood. To the roof of
the Hlutdaw mounted the faithful Thwethaukgyi[153] Tun Baw and his
subordinates, with chatties[154] of water and bamboo poles, to quench
and beat out flying sparks. Luckily the fire in the enclosure was
mastered, and we returned, grimy and thirsty, relieved to find our
quarters still standing. As the Palace was crowded with military and
civil officers and their establishments, and contained all the records,
its destruction would have been very inconvenient.
The fortnight which followed was the longest fortnight of my life. It
was crowded with incident, attacks and risings, above all, incendiary
fires. Since those days I have ceased to take interest in fires. On the
Queen’s Tower[155] stood a sentinel, day and night, to sound the alarm.
The easiest way to the tower was through my bedroom. Nightly I went to
sleep in expectation of being aroused by the fire-bugle and the tramp
of men, and I was hardly ever disappointed. Every night we climbed
the wooden tower, and saw the blaze of conflagration in town or city.
Once I asked the sentry if he had heard any sound of firing. “Well,
sir, I thought I did hear one of them there brinjals,”[156] was the
unexpected answer. Once, again, fire broke out within the Palace fence,
but did not spread. This also was well, as close to our quarters were
considerable quantities of gunpowder and dynamite. With the early rains
at the end of April fires ceased, and Mandalay enjoyed comparative rest.
It was certain that some of the Burmese officials in Mandalay were
fomenting seditious movements in the country. Suspicion fell upon the
Shwehlan Myowun[157] and the Hlethin Atwinwun.[158] The Myowun was
removed to India in virtue of a warrant issued under the invaluable
Regulation III. of 1818. He was taken from his house by Mr. J. G.
Scott,[159] who had joined the Commission and was on general duty in
Mandalay. Their next meeting was at a pwè in Mandalay, on a memorable
night in 1897, long after the Myowun had been allowed to return.[160]
The Hlethin Atwinwun, most plausible and bland of miscreants, believed
to have been deeply involved in the massacre of Princes, from whose
hands one expected to see blood still dripping, was moved to visit
Calcutta of his own accord in response to a general invitation given
to Burmese Ministers by Lord Dufferin. He stayed in Calcutta for some
years, much against his will, but solely under pressure of peaceful
persuasion. He returned much chastened, and lived on good terms with
the officers of Government till his death early last year.
In accordance with precedent not always observed, King Mindôn had
moved his capital from Amarapura to Mandalay in the late fifties,
transferring thither many of the inhabitants and all the entourage of
the Court. The site was not in all respects well chosen. Much of the
town was below the level of the river in high flood, and had to be
protected by an embankment. In the rains of 1886 the Irrawaddy rose
to an abnormal height, causing grave anxiety for the safety of the
bund.[161] One night in August the disaster came. The embankment was
breached, and the low-lying parts of the town, as far as the great
bazaar (zegyo), were inundated. It was a night of peril and excitement,
which taxed to the utmost the energies of the officers in charge of
Mandalay, Captain Adamson, Mr. Carter, and Mr. Fforde. Till the river
began to fall the town remained under water, and we all went about the
streets in boats and launches. As the Burman is an amphibious being,
and the people in the area menaced by the flood had ample warning, the
loss of life was comparatively small. Searching inquiry established the
conclusion that twelve persons were drowned. An even more melancholy
loss of life occurred in connection with the distribution of rice to
people rendered destitute by the flood. In a crowd in a narrow passage
someone fell; the throng pushed forward unknowing, and many people were
trampled to death before the press could be stayed.
One of the objects to which from the beginning the Chief Commissioner
devoted the full force of his energy and influence was the continuation
of the railway from Toungoo to Mandalay. By dint of constant and
indefatigable pressure on the higher powers, and by steadfast
resistance to the suggestion that a trunk road should first be made,
he succeeded in obtaining sanction for this essential work. The survey
was actually begun in the rains of 1886; construction was started
early in November of that year; and in February, 1889, less than three
years after the proclamation of annexation, the line was opened to
traffic throughout its whole length. To those who have experienced the
delay usually attending the grant of sanction to important and costly
proposals, the most remarkable feature of this record is that leave
should have been obtained in less than a year from the occupation of
Mandalay. The construction of the line afforded work to great numbers
of Burmans and others, and proved one of the most pacifying influences
in the eastern districts. There were no engineering difficulties, and
the climate enabled work to be carried on continuously throughout the
year. The opening of the railway was hailed with joy by the Burmans,
who expressed their appreciation in characteristic fashion, greeting
passing trains with shouts of delight and crowding to travel in the
mi-yahta.[162] It should never be forgotten that to Sir Charles
Bernard alone the Province owes the inception of this work, as indeed
in earlier days to his far-seeing policy it owed the construction of
the railway from Rangoon to Pegu, and thence to Toungoo. Apparently
Sir Charles Bernard furnished an exception to the rule that Indian
civilians are persons of narrow horizon.
Among the measures taken at an early stage to facilitate the
pacification of Upper Burma was the disarmament of the people. Orders
to effect this were issued by Sir Charles Bernard, and some progress
was made. It was, however, under Sir Charles Crosthwaite’s rule that,
in the face of much opposition, the whole Province was effectually
disarmed. No measure has had more excellent results in the prevention
of serious disturbances. Though from time to time dacoits and robbers
have become possessed of firearms, the thoroughness of the disarmament
is proved by the inability of rebels in recent years to obtain guns
and powder. The Arms Act has been very strictly enforced in Burma, the
number of firearms in each district being strictly limited, with the
most beneficial effect.
In the time of King Mindôn and King Thebaw many foreigners, mostly
French and Italian, flocked to Mandalay and obtained various
appointments in the King’s service. The downfall of the Burmese
kingdom deprived these gentlemen of their employment. All had claims
against the Burmese Government for arrears of pay, for goods sold, or
for work done. Our Government naturally accepted responsibility for
the lawful debts of its predecessor. The claims of foreign creditors
were investigated as quickly as possible, and those established were
discharged. Besides these, there were literally hundreds of other
demands for payment of sums alleged to be due from the late Government.
These claims were laboriously investigated and reinvestigated, and
finally adjudicated upon by the Government of India. Substantial
payments were made in settlement of debts sufficiently proved.
In those early days for most officers, military and civil, in Mandalay
life was a ceaseless round of strenuous labour. For me it was intensely
exciting. All day and often far into the night my time was fully
occupied. The enthralling interest of seeing from within and from
the centre the making of a new Province, of taking a humble share in
the work, was a privilege which falls to few men in a generation.
The receipt of reports from districts, the issue of the Chief
Commissioner’s orders, daily contact with men of distinction in arms or
civil affairs, the early morning ride with my Chief or with a comrade,
sometimes even with the Commander-in-Chief, Sir Frederick Roberts, of
whose kindness I have the pleasantest recollection, opportunities for
the study of Burmese life and character, filled to overflowing the
swiftly passing weeks. Bustle and excitement and good fellowship formed
an exhilarating combination. All the holiday I had that year was a run
down to Rangoon for a day to see my wife and family off to England.
But who wanted holidays at such a time, when his work was far more
interesting and stimulating than other people’s play? With Stevenson we
might say that we had “the profit of industry with the pleasures of a
pastime.”
It should hardly be necessary to say that in those early months the
outskirts and fringes, the Shan States and the Chin and Kachin Hills,
were untouched. It has been suggested that in dealing with the Shan
country there was undue delay. Anyone who realizes how much there was
to do in the plains, and how impossible it was to do everything at
once, recognizes the futility of the suggestion. The Chins were left
severely alone. The only attempt made this year to penetrate into the
Kachin Hills was the luckless expedition to Pônkan,[163] which returned
to Bhamo _re infecta_, to the extreme wrath of Sir Charles Bernard and
Sir George White.
The Shan States occupied the whole of the east of Burma, stretching
even beyond the Mèkong River. They constituted an integral part of the
Burmese Empire, but were administered by their own hereditary chiefs,
puny folk who grovelled before the pinchbeck Majesty of Burma, and
were on a footing quite inferior to that of native rulers in India.
The first of the Shan chiefs to open communication with us was the
Sawbwa[164] of Hsipaw, or, as the Burmese called it, Thibaw, the State
from which the late King derived his title. This enlightened chief had
a romantic history which will bear retelling. Some years before, having
quarrelled with the King, he fled for his life to Lower Burma. With
a few attendants he took up his residence in Kemmendine, a suburb of
Rangoon. Presently he came to believe, very likely with good reason,
that at the King’s instigation two of his servants were plotting his
death. Accustomed in his State to exercise the power of life and death,
he tried them in his own mind, found them guilty, and executed them
with his own hand, shooting them both. He was tried by the Recorder
of Rangoon (Mr. C. F. Egerton Allen[165]) and a jury, convicted,
and sentenced to death. The capital sentence was at once commuted
to transportation for life, and the chief began to serve his term
in the Rangoon jail, where he was at first set to do the usual hard
labour required of prisoners. Mr. Crosthwaite, who was acting as Chief
Commissioner, found him in this sad condition, and ordered material
alleviation of his lot. The Sawbwa’s faithful Mahadevi,[166] who had
accompanied her husband, besieged the Chief Commissioner with petitions
for his release. Before long Mr. Crosthwaite yielded to her importunity
and set free the Sawbwa on condition that he never returned to British
territory. He went to the independent State of Karenni. At or about the
time of the occupation of Mandalay he made his way back to Thibaw, and
after a brief struggle regained possession of his State.
Quite early in 1886 the Sawbwa wrote to me, as Secretary to the
Administration, saying that he had received much kindness from the
British Government, and desired to be on terms of friendship with us.
It has always seemed to me that this was a very magnanimous act. I
agree that it also showed much wisdom. The Sawbwa was a man of great
intelligence. He had seen and experienced the power of the British
Government. No doubt he realized that he was dealing with a Government
immeasurably stronger than that which it had displaced, and he saw
his interest in being on good terms with it. I think, too, that he
had a shining vision of becoming an independent Sovereign in alliance
with India. After all these deductions are made, it implied true
greatness of soul for a semi-civilized chief to remember the clemency
which had spared his life, to forget the dock and the prison cell and
work-yard. The correspondence begun by the Sawbwa was continued on
cordial terms. Early in 1887, in spite of the passionate entreaties
of his advisers, who were filled with gloomy forebodings, Kun Saing
came down to Mandalay. This again showed courage and foresight. There
was not a British officer or soldier in the length and breadth of the
Shan States. Mandalay was full of troops. Though he brought a fairly
large retinue, the Sawbwa knew that he was placing himself entirely
in our power. His confidence was more than justified. He was received
with some ceremony, Mr. J. E. Bridges, C.S., and I, as representatives
of Government, meeting him at Aung-bin-le with a squadron of cavalry
and a military band. Under this escort the Sawbwa made a triumphant
entry into Mandalay, and was allowed even to ride through the Palace
grounds. In the King’s time he might sooner have hoped to fly over
them. Sir Frederick Roberts and Sir Charles Bernard were among the many
spectators of the procession. Accompanied by the Mahadevi, the Sawbwa
was suitably lodged in a Win[167] outside the city walls. The ladies
in his train were somewhat scandalized at being photographed by an
enthusiastic amateur before they had time to change out of riding kit.
The Sawbwa’s amáts[168] continued in a state of alarm all the time they
were in Mandalay. Their terror rose almost to frenzy when one day the
Chief was taken for a picnic on the river in an Indian Marine vessel.
Even the Chief was somewhat relieved when he landed safe and sound on
the Hard.
The Sawbwa had the luck to be in Mandalay at the celebration of Queen
Victoria’s first Jubilee. Partly in honour of that auspicious occasion,
partly in recognition of his confidence and loyalty, the tribute of
Thibaw was remitted for ten years, and three small adjacent States,
Maing-lôn, Thônzè, and Maing-tôn, to which very shadowy claims had been
preferred, were added to the Sawbwa’s territory. Sir Charles Bernard’s
action in making over these States has been criticized. Viewing the
case calmly after the lapse of years, I humbly think that his decision
was wise. The suggestion of the risk of creating a powerful Shan State
strong enough to be a menace to Government was plainly ridiculous. If
all the Shan States were united under one Chief, he would not have as
much power as the ruler of a second-class native State in India. Thibaw
with its added sub-States could never be in a position to cause the
Government of Burma a moment’s anxiety. On the other hand, a large and
comparatively wealthy State is more easily managed and likely to be
administered better than a lot of small tracts.
[Illustration: THE SAWBWA OF THIBAW.]
Although Kun Saing was not an ideal ruler; although from time to time
complaints were made against him; although, I believe unjustly, even
his loyalty was doubted, he was an enlightened and intelligent chief of
some subtlety. Twice in later years he visited England, where he had
the honour of being received by Her Majesty Queen Victoria. The story,
from first to last, has a ring of the Old Testament. The place most
of all admired by the Sawbwa was the Crystal Palace (hman-nan-daw).
Towards the end of his life, when the first signs of unrest in the East
became dimly apparent, he is said to have contracted a secret marriage
with the Pakangyi Supaya,[169] King Thebaw’s sister. Not that he
meditated treason; but if anything should happen, he meant to be on the
right side.
Two of Kun Saing’s sons were partly educated in England. The elder,
Saw Hkè, succeeded his father, and is now the polished, courtly Chief
of Thibaw. The story of Saw Lu, the younger son, is pathetic and
instructive. When still a boy he was sent to England, and was for a
time at Rugby. He was a studious and ambitious youth, whose desire
was to be, not a King, but a doctor. Most unwisely, merely to see how
he was getting on, his father recalled him, and he was turned loose
in Thibaw at the age of about sixteen. The temptations besetting the
Chief’s young son in his father’s capital were too strong for him,
and he fell from grace. The cup of his iniquity brimmed over when he
eloped with a young girl who had been selected as the Sawbwa’s Abishag.
The fugitives were brought back, and the boy was cast into prison.
“Is this your British justice?” he indignantly asked the political
officer who came to condole with him. Presently he was released, and
came to see me in Rangoon. “I don’t know what to do,” he said; “I
have apologized to the governor, but he won’t forgive me.” He was an
exceedingly good-looking, nice-mannered youth, like a pleasant English
public-school boy. He was not allowed to return to England. Over his
subsequent history it is kinder to draw a veil. The moral of this story
is that if a Burman or Shan, especially a Chief’s son, is to come to
England, he should be sent while still young, and should be kept at a
good public school and at the University until his character has been
formed. He should on no account be brought back midway in the course of
his education.
Even more deeply learned in Shan than in Burmese, Pilcher would have
been the first civil officer in the Shan States. After his death, I
was designated by Sir Charles Bernard for that post. When the time
came, another officer was selected. Speaking seriously and without
reserve, I have no doubt that this was for the advantage of the Shan
country. No one could have been more conspicuously successful than
Mr. Hildebrand[170] and Mr. Scott;[171] no one is likely to have
done nearly so well. In view of the original intention, in the cold
weather of 1886 I was given a holiday from office-work, and sent as
civil officer with a column under Colonel E. Stedman[172] to Thônzè.
Through this State ran the trade route to the Northern Shan States,
Thibaw, Theinni, and Taungbaing. Along this road came caravans of
bullocks laden with letpet.[173] Owing to dissensions in Thônzè, the
trade was stopped. The object of our expedition, the first sent into
the Shan country, was to obtain information and to open the road for
traders. Early in November, when the season should have been settled,
on a fine Sunday afternoon, I rode out to join the rearguard at Tônbo.
Next morning we were to catch up the main column at Zibingale. From
Tônbo to Zibingale we climbed the hill in a torrent of rain, letting
our ponies loose to scramble up the steep and rocky ascent, while the
Gurkhas chaffed one another and laughed at the weather. At Zibingale
we stayed under canvas in the rain for three days and three nights,
quite comfortable in our tents, but rather aggrieved at having to wade
knee-deep in mud to mess.
The Madrasi garrison of the post was prostrate with fever almost to a
man; of our own small force about a quarter fell sick. By judicious
doses of quinine, I saved my servants and myself, so that we all came
through unscathed. After three days the rain ceased and we began our
march in cool November sunshine. On that delightful plateau, some three
thousand feet above the sea, the winter climate is perfect. We rode
through forest paths and fairy glades, wild roses clustering in the
hedges. At Pyintha and Singaing, we first saw the bazaar, held every
five days, a custom peculiar to the Shan States and Further East.
Buyers and sellers came from all the countryside, often from distant
places. It is much like market-day in a country town in England. The
market at Singaing and at Pyinulwin was of some interest, and attracted
strange folk from the hills. It was not to be compared with the great
bazaars held at Kēngtūng, Namkham, or even Mogôk, thronged with many
varieties of races in rich diversities of attire. To us, the people
most novel and attractive were the Shans, men swaggering in baggy
trousers and large flapping straw hats brigand-like, but formidable
only in appearance; girls with russet-rosy cheeks, shy and gentle.
Pyin-u-lwin, a charmingly situated village of some five-and-twenty
houses, with a market-place and a gambling ring, won our hearts. Though
we did not actually discover Pyin-u-lwin, we were among its earliest
visitors. We were received with all kindness and hospitality. Several
of us were housed in the village monastery, where we were heartily
welcomed by the monk. He was still there when I left Burma twenty-four
years later. With Captain E. W. Dun, our Intelligence Officer, I
inspected a curious magnetic rock in the neighbouring jungle. Some
years afterwards it was described as a new discovery by a geologist of
note. It has been lost again, but will doubtless be found some day.
Soon after our return, on Colonel Stedman’s recommendation, a military
post was established at Pyin-u-lwin, and called May-my̆o, after Colonel
May, of the Bengal army, a Mutiny veteran, the first Commandant.
May-my̆o is now the summer residence of the Burma Government and the
headquarters of the Burma division, a flourishing hill-station with a
population of about 12,000. Without pretension to the picturesque, it
is a place of great charm and quiet beauty, with no palm-trees and few
pagodas, conspicuously un-Oriental, more like a corner of Surrey than
of Burma.[174]
From Pyin-u-lwin we marched to Thônzè, through a desolate country,
overgrown with elephant-grass, but with many signs of past prosperity.
At the ruined town of Thônzè, now no more than a straggling village,
we halted and tried to open communication with Hein Sè,[175] a bandit
who claimed to be Chief of the State. I promised him a safe-conduct and
liberty to depart if we could not come to terms, and to encourage him,
I offered to let him keep my messenger as a hostage for his safety.
This offer was made with the knowledge and consent of the messenger,
a little Shan chiefling known as the Tabet Myosa. Him we had found,
practically destitute, in Mandalay, where he had been detained by the
King. As a matter of grace, he was given an allowance of Rs. 10[176] a
month. He accompanied me on this tour, and pluckily undertook to carry
my letter to Hein Sè. As he was leaving, he turned at the tent-door,
and said: “But you will let him come back, won’t you?” Accepting my
assurance, he went off. I know that he discharged his mission, as I
received a reply. But his courage was not put to the extreme test. Hein
Sè behaved like a gentleman, treated the envoy kindly, and sent him
back in safety. He himself declined my invitation. The future history
of Tabet may be told here. A few months later, when Mr. Hildebrand
and Mr. Scott went to the Shan States, I sent the Myosa with them. He
made himself useful, and showed nerve and ability. When, owing to the
persistent recalcitrance of its ruler, who fled across the Salween
and stayed there, the large State of Yatsauk was in need of a chief,
Tabet was chosen. He ruled Yatsauk with loyalty and intelligence, and
handed down the succession to his son. His fortune, probably his merit,
was better than that of another Shan chiefling of similar status, the
Maingkaing Myosa, who also received from Government 13s. 4d. a month,
and received no more.
The rest of this tour was without incident. We explained to the people
of Thônzè the beneficent intentions of Government, and gave a practical
example of the good manners of a British military force. The Gurkhas
of the column, then as ever, were specially popular with the people to
whom doubtless they are akin.
In February, 1887, Mandalay was not behind the rest of India in
celebrating the Jubilee of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. The ceremonies
were designedly arranged so as to give the people an opportunity of
demonstrating their loyalty and devotion to the Crown by revels which
they themselves appreciated. For a week pwès[177] and other Burmese
festivities went on day and night. On the first day came all the
members of the royal family, all the high officials, and a crowd of
others, in their gayest and richest attire. In the principal ballet
appeared, probably for the last time, the famous singer and dancer,
Yindaw Ma Le, the favourite of Princes, undisputed _prima donna_ of the
Burmese operatic stage, who ten years before had been sent to Rangoon
by Mindôn Min to dance at the Proclamation rejoicings. Twenty years
later her successor, Ma Twe Le, also a lady of supreme grace and
serpentine charm,[178] had the honour of dancing before Their Royal
Highnesses the Prince and Princess of Wales.
One of the relaxations of those early days was to see the working of
the Elephant Kheddah at Amarapura. The Kheddah establishment, inherited
from the King and maintained for some time, consisted of a number
of tame elephants, thoroughly well trained, with Burmese riders and
hunters. The tame elephants, some with riders, some guided only by
their own sagacity, plunged into a jungle teeming with herds of their
wild brethren. By artful strategy a wild elephant would be detached
from his fellows, lured into the midst of the tame herd, and gradually
drawn to the Kheddah enclosure. This was a quadrangle, entered only by
a funnel-shaped passage, surrounded by a strong outer wall of brick
and by an inner stockade of stout teak posts set at intervals, with
a space between the stockade and the wall. By his clever, perfidious
friends, the captive was cunningly edged and hustled towards the
passage till finally he was thrust into its mouth. Then the gate was
securely fastened and the quarry was alone at the mercy of his captors.
The hunters teased him with blunt spears and sticks, not doing him any
real harm, but annoying him exceedingly, escaping his charge by darting
between the posts of the palisade, set wide enough apart to admit a
man but not an elephant. This was a sport of some danger, requiring
nerve and agility. When the poor beast was thoroughly tired, he was
noosed and tied up in the Kheddah, and the process of training began.
Spectators sat in crowds on the wall to watch this pastime. I do not
think it occurred to any of us that it was somewhat cruel.
In March, 1887, Sir Charles Bernard left Burma. He was entertained by
the Headquarters Mess at a farewell dinner, where Sir George White[179]
proposed his health in moving and eloquent terms, quoting most
appropriately the famous lines:
“Him who cares not to be great,
But as he saves or serves the State.
Not once or twice in our rough island story,
The path of duty was the way to glory:
He that walks it, only thirsting
For the right, and learns to deaden
Love of self, before his journey closes,
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples, which outredden
All voluptuous garden-roses.”
We escorted our guest to the steamer, and there bade farewell to our
Chief and our friend.