RANGOON--MANDALAY
When I returned early in 1893, Mr. Fryer was acting as Chief
Commissioner during Sir Alexander Mackenzie’s absence on leave; Mr.
Symes was still Chief Secretary. For a few weeks I was on special duty
examining and abstracting the documentary evidence concerning the
boundary between Burma and China, then in the acute stage of discussion
between the two Governments. After this was done, for a short time
I held charge of the Pegu division. It was a most unsatisfactory
appointment. The Commissioner was still Sessions Judge, and, though
assisted by a coadjutor, took a full share of the original and
appellate work. Piled on top of the revenue and administrative duties,
this formed a mountain which no one could scale. However strenuously
the Commissioner laboured, however much he accomplished, he felt that
as much or more remained undone. This was worse than the Secretariat,
where, with diligence, one could keep abreast of the files.
The one exciting incident of my brief tenure of this office was the
riot in Rangoon between Mohammedans and Hindus in June, 1893. In Burma
we were accustomed to a mild and tolerant religion, and had little
acquaintance with the fierce fanaticism of warring sects. We resented
bitterly the stirring up of strife by Mohammedans and Hindus in a
land where they were strangers and pilgrims, hospitably received and
treated with courtesy and consideration. Just as if guests should hurl
decanters at one another across their host’s dinner-table. It is not
quite accurate to say that Burmans dislike and despise Indians. They
welcome them with large-hearted tolerance, and live amicably side by
side with them. But the Burman regards himself as a superior being,
much superior to anyone, except, perhaps, even this is doubtful, a
European. And he does resent Indians being placed in authority over him.
The occasion of this unusual and unnecessary tumult was the Mohammedan
festival of Bakr-i-id. Though in Burma we have, I think, a slight
leaning to the side of Mohammedans, whose religion is less puzzling
to the lay mind than the abstruse mythology of the Hindus, I am bound
to say that this time the Mohammedans were entirely in the wrong. In
Twenty-ninth Street, a narrow thoroughfare of no good name, stood a
Hindu temple of some repute. Having the rest of Rangoon practically
at their disposal, the Mohammedans declared it essential to sacrifice
their cow close to this temple. Forbidden by the magistrate to do this,
it was expected that they would set at naught the prohibition. Such
precautions as seemed necessary were taken by the Deputy Commissioner,
Mr. A. S. Fleming, who was in close communication with me and with the
Chief Secretary, Mr. Fryer being absent on tour. We determined to do
the best with the police before calling out troops. Military and civil
police patrols were organized; and early on Sunday morning, the great
day of the feast, a fairly strong picket of military police, partly
Mohammedans and partly Hindus, was posted at the top of Twenty-ninth
Street. All local and civil officers, as well as others not immediately
concerned, were in the town. The streets were thronged with people,
Mohammedans in holiday attire, Hindus ready to make mischief, both
sides spoiling for a fight. From the top of Twenty-ninth Street
could be seen the great mosque in Mogul Street, crowded with excited
worshippers. For a time, though the tension was extreme, nothing
happened. One high official, who was present as a sightseer, asked
wherefore the rioting did not begin. Before long he was satisfied.
The crowd became a seething mass. A rush was made to force the picket
holding Twenty-ninth Street. Then stones began to fly, and all was
confusion. Sowars[227] cleared the street, but as soon as the charge
was past the roadway was again filled with rioters. Mr. Fleming had his
head cut open by a stone. My thick topi[228] saved me from a similar
mishap, and I was struck by missiles more than once. The spot near the
objective of strife, where several of us were standing, became a very
warm corner. It seemed advisable to summon troops. My friend Mr. E. W.
B. Summers volunteered to ride up to barracks, running the gauntlet
of showers of stones from street and houses. That shots were fired
from windows was said, but this is not within my knowledge. At last it
became clear that the small party of police and officials at the top
of Twenty-ninth Street was in imminent danger of being wiped out. I
therefore told the senior military police officer to take the necessary
measures to stop the riot. A file of men was ordered out, and a volley
was fired, causing some loss of life. As if by magic, the uproar ceased
in a moment. At first, by my order, blank cartridge was fired, but
without effect. It has since been definitely ordered that on these
occasions blank cartridge is never to be used. I dare say I am wrong.
Certainly the weight of authority is against me. But if I used my own
judgment, in a similar emergency, as a measure of humanity, I should
again try first the effect of blank firing. The statement made at the
time that blank fire only infuriated the mob is quite baseless. It had
no effect whatever. By the time the troops arrived all was quiet. The
soldiers marched through the streets and were picketed in the town, and
there was no further disorder.
This is the story of the riot of 1893 as pictured in my memory. Yet
such is the fallibility of human testimony that accounts written
immediately afterwards by myself and two other officers, all close
together at the time, differed on material points. This was a useful
lesson to me in dealing with the evidence of eye-witnesses, especially
in times of excitement. Defects of observation and lapses of memory
cause discrepancies in the stories of witnesses whose sole desire is to
tell the truth. The stern suppression of this wicked and wanton riot
kept the peace in Rangoon for twenty years. At first, as Bakr-i-id
came round, troops were posted in the town. But there has been no
disturbance, and display of military force has been discontinued. I do
not think Indians bore me any ill-will for the part taken by me in this
affair. To the end of my service many of them remained my good friends.
Within a couple of months of the riot my wife and I were welcomed at
the Mohurram in Mandalay, listened to the sad story of Hassan and
Hussein, and watched the fiery rites of that impressive celebration.
In the middle of 1893 I became Commissioner of the Northern Division.
The country was perfectly quiet and in order. Settled times had
succeeded the bustle and confusion of the pacification. There was
now leisure to prepare and execute projects for the benefit of the
people. First among these was the Mu Valley Railway, which runs from
Sagaing to Myit-kyina, opening up the fertile, land-locked plains of
Wuntho, where a year or two earlier unhusked rice sold for ten rupees
a hundred baskets, and rich lands farther north. A branch runs to
Katha, on the Irrawaddy, below Bhamo, with which there is connection
by ferry. Between Mandalay and Sagaing there is still a gap in the
system. As soon as funds are available the Irrawaddy must be bridged,
and through communication established from Rangoon to Myit-kyina. Even
more important than the railway were two great irrigation schemes
for watering the dry districts of Mandalay and Shwebo. These were
being examined and matured. When I rode through Shwebo in the autumn
of this year with the Deputy Commissioner, Mr. G. W. Shaw,[229] the
fields were as hard as the stony-hearted pavement of Oxford Street.
Anxiously the people watched the sky, longing for the appearance of the
smallest cloud. Rice was scarce, and edible roots formed the staple
fare of the peasantry. We were perilously near the Famine Code. In
those days, if Shwebo had one good year in three, it reckoned itself
fortunate. Luckily, at harvest-time there was always work in Lower
Burma; and if the season failed, crowds streamed down to the teeming
rice-fields of the Delta, whence they honourably remitted sustenance
for the women, the aged, and the infirm left in their homes. Though
emigration is easy and common enough, most Burmans are strongly
attached to their birthplace, and cling with passionate affection
to their ancestral lands. Mortgages are kept alive for a century or
more, the hope of regaining possession being abandoned with extreme
reluctance. Thus, though many farmers from the sterile north took up
land in the Delta and made new homes, the majority hastened back to
their native districts at the faintest prospect of a good season. Now
in Shwebo, thanks to the Irrigation Canal, the face of the country is
changed. Thousands of acres formerly dependent on precarious rainfall
receive ample and regular supplies of water, and are under continuous
cultivation. The pretty song of the women as they plant out the
seedlings from the pyogin[230] is doubtless heard as of yore, now not
intermittently, but each year as the season recurs. A District which
was too often a barren waste is now a rich harvest-field, giving grain
not only for local use, but for export. Similar good results have been
obtained in the Mandalay district by similar means. These irrigation
systems, which not only enrich the people, but also yield a handsome
revenue, were planned and executed with all the skill and science of
irrigation engineers experienced in such work in the Punjab. They were
based on the old Burmese works, which had fallen into disrepair, and
which at no time were sufficiently well planned and managed to secure
regular crops.
On the borders, the Kachins had been reduced to order and had become
for the most part a law-abiding people. No longer were they permitted
to levy toll on passing caravans, or to raid and oppress the plain
villages at the foot of their hills. Their subjugation had not been
effected without difficulty. In 1891 and 1892 there was severe fighting
at Sima and Sadôn; and as recently as Christmas, 1892, Myitkyina had
been attacked and burnt by a raiding party from the north. But when
they had been well beaten, and when posts had been established at
various points, the hillmen rapidly settled down. The discontinuance
of their lawless practices was more than compensated by the wealth
acquired as payment for services rendered to our officers and
military police garrisons. The Kachins, in which name may be included,
conveniently if unscientifically, many kindred tribes speaking
different dialects and following diverse customs, are sturdy fellows,
peopling the hills of the Bhamo district, on the borders of China and
Tibet. As a race, they have the vigour and vitality characteristic of
mountaineers. They are distinctly one of the most progressive races of
Burma, and, but for our advent, would have penetrated gradually far
into the plains of Burma and the Shan States. Washed and brushed up,
many Kachins show signs of a high order of intelligence.
At this time the Bhamo district still included all the Kachin country,
Myitkyina not being yet constituted a separate charge. Mainly by
the genius of Mr. E. C. S. George,[231] the system of managing the
tribesmen was evolved. The hills were divided into administered and
unadministered tracts. In the latter there were no posts, and no
interference was attempted. So long as their inhabitants abstained
from raids and outrages in the settled country; so long, as was
somewhat crudely said, as they confined their zeal for slaughter to
their own borders, they were at liberty to do as they pleased. No
officers visited them, summoned them to appear, or exacted any tax or
tribute. Travellers crossed the administrative line at their own risk,
Government accepting no responsibility for their safety, and refusing
to exact reparation if they suffered wrong. Our sovereignty over these
tracts was not abandoned; it was merely left in abeyance. From time
to time the administrative line has been varied. On this side of the
line Government undertook to preserve order and to punish misconduct.
The administered country was dominated by police posts and placed in
charge of the Deputy Commissioner and his assistants. Control light but
effective was enforced. A simple code was promulgated, care being taken
to avoid the creation of artificial offences and undue interference
with local customs. Each village-tract had its own headman, with
fairly extensive powers, appointed by the Deputy Commissioner. In
early days the headman was rather absurdly called Sawbwa; with fuller
knowledge the title of Duwa was adopted. Periodically in the open
season, the Deputy Commission and his Assistants, with suitable
escorts, made set tours through the hills, trying cases, settling
disputes, and collecting the moderate tribute or household tax, the
only revenue raised from the Kachins. This patriarchal system, which
was gradually perfected, has succeeded admirably. Since the beginning
of 1893, only one serious disturbance[232] has broken the peace of the
Kachin country. The orderly condition of our hill-tracts afforded a
pleasing contrast to the state of those close at hand under Chinese
control, where complete indifference alternated with savage measures of
repression.
Affairs on the Chinese border gave some trouble. The boundary had
been declared, but not yet demarcated. Its actual location being still
undetermined, it was difficult to prevent encroachments, some of which
were designed to strengthen the Chinese case when the border-line came
to be settled. We had to correspond directly with Chinese officers at
Yunnan-fu and T’Êngyüeh, consular officers at these places not having
yet been appointed. On the whole, the Chinese were not bad neighbours.
We certainly were not afraid of them, but were able to take a correct
measure of their power as of their diplomacy.
At the end of the year 1893, just at the close of his turn of office,
the Viceroy, Lord Lansdowne, came to Burma. With Lady Lansdowne, he
visited Mandalay, went up the river as far as Bhamo, and by launch
through the First Defile to Sinbo. In His Excellency’s party were Sir
Henry Brackenbury,[233] Military Member of Council; Sir John Ardagh,
Private Secretary; Mr. W. J. Cuningham,[234] Foreign Secretary;
and once more Lord William Beresford as Military Secretary. The
administration of the Kachin Hills and the Chinese boundary was
discussed on the spot by the Viceroy with the Chief Commissioner
and his local officers. At Bhamo the Viceroy held a Durbar on the
house-boat in which the Chief Commissioner was wont to travel in
comfort, if not in luxury. Kachin Duwas came in crowds and laid spears
and elephant tusks and embroidered cloths at His Excellency’s feet,
receiving more valuable gifts in return. On shore weird Kachin dances
were performed mid unseasonable rain, which damped the revels. It
was a pity, for at the best a Kachin dance is a depressing ceremony,
something like “Here we go round the mulberry bush,” played by tired
children. At Mandalay, in the golden-pillared Western Hall of Audience,
a fitting setting for so brilliant a scene, another Durbar was held,
glittering with uniforms of British officers and gay with the bright
Court dresses of Burman and Shan notables.
This cold season I toured in the hills for some weeks and in the
pleasantest company. Captain Bower,[235] having covered himself
with glory by hunting down the murderer of Dalgleish and earned
fresh laurels by his adventurous march across Tibet, came over to
gather honey for the Intelligence hive. Mr. George, who made all the
bandobast[236] for the tour, was more at home among Kachins than any
man of his time. Starting from Waing-maw, we marched inland to Sima,
the scene of a fierce struggle not many months before, where Morton met
a soldier’s death and Captain Lloyd[237] won the Victoria Cross. So
close to the border that in the first Boundary Convention, concluded
when our diplomatists were in great awe of China’s puissance, it was
assigned to our neighbours, Sima was a little outpost in the hills.
Surrounded by a stockade, a ditch, and barbed-wire entanglements, it
was strong enough to resist any probable attack. Officers and men
were housed in huts of mud or mat, stores and ammunition in sheds of
corrugated iron. Long since these primitive posts have been replaced
by substantial forts built on scientific plans. A line of them holds
the frontier and dominates the hills. From Sima we struck northward
to Sadôn, then our farthest outpost. We strolled at leisure; along
forest paths up and down hill; across clear mountain-streams, sometimes
at a ford, sometimes by a swaying bridge hastily made of bamboos
with a carpet of long grass, sometimes on a raft or rude dugout;
through thriving Kachin villages perched on crests of hills, where
the barbarous people showed us no little kindness, offering fruits
from their Taungyas[238] and encouraging us to explore their long, low
thatched houses. A stretch of the march led easily over the saddle of
a range of hills. In the morning the valleys were covered with a veil
of mist; as this dispersed, at our feet were spread fertile plains,
and in the distance gleamed the Irrawaddy like a silver thread. Our
escort was a score of mounted military police, our transport mules
from China. Early, but not too early, we rose and took a substantial
chota haziri[239] beside the camp-fire while the mules were loading
up. Chinese muleteers have many good points, but they need handling,
and submit with reluctance to interference with their little ways. You
may hearken, but their voice is not in heaven before the lark. Even
when they have been roused from slumber, it is any odds that two or
three mules have wandered off in the night and have to be sought with
vituperation best left obscure. The actual loading is comparatively
simple. The baggage is tied to a wooden saddle which is lifted on to
the mule’s back and left there unfastened. At that season, at the
height of some three or four thousand feet, the climate was perfect,
cool, and bright. We could march all day without inconvenience. Once
started, we walked and rode, staying now and then to interview headmen
and villagers with special reference to an inquiry into the opium
habit which I was making for my own satisfaction, till we reached our
halting-place, on the bank of a crystal stream. One inviolable rule
was enforced. The sumpter mule always headed the cavalcade. After a
dip in the river, while tents were being pitched we breakfasted under
a shady tree at any hour from one to five, as the length of the march
determined. The best servant in the camp was Captain Bower’s Pathan,
a hook-nosed ruffian from the North-West Frontier, who had been in
every scrap on the border for a generation. When he raised his finger,
the other servants fled gibbering. After dinner, the day’s work over,
he relaxed. In a leafy bower, like a figure from the Arabian Nights,
smoking a hookah he sat holding enthralled a breathless audience with,
one fondly hoped, stories of adventure. Perhaps he was only discussing
prices in the bazaar. Next to him, _longo intervallo_, was the Kachin
Zinaw who acted as interpreter and handyman. He began the march
speaking Chinese, Shan, Burmese, and several Kachin dialects; he ended
with a working knowledge of English and Hindustani. Zinaw was a man
of great intelligence, but not of lofty principle. For negotiating
the passage of a rushing stream, or for hastily rigging up a camp, he
was invaluable. Some years he flourished, till misdirected ingenuity
brought him to grief. His last service to Government was rendered, I
believe, in the Bhamo Jail.
Up to Sadôn we climbed with labour and heavy sorrow, each height
surmounted revealing our goal apparently as distant as ever, till
we were fain to sit down in the dust and weep. Drever, the post
commandant, an athlete of renown, explained the special advantage of
life at Sadôn. Whenever you went for a walk you had to descend 2,000
feet and climb up again. So you kept in condition. In posts like this
one or two civil and military police officers spent the months guarding
the marches. Occasional tours were welcome interludes. The work was not
very arduous, and there was a blessed lack of files and records. But
it was a hard life, with few amenities, often drearily monotonous. Our
frontier officers cheerfully endured this isolated existence, and kept
bright their country’s honour among the hill tribes.
Still passing northward, we reached the bank of the ’Nmaikha, the
main branch of the Irrawaddy, which, starting from a source still
unascertained, joins the Mali-kha some thirty miles above Myitkyina.
We camped at ’Nsentaru Ferry, forbidden to cross, as the _enclave_
between the two rivers is unadministered territory. A scene of savage
beauty, with hills on every side, the distant peaks on the Chinese
border white with snow. We rambled upstream and along the bank of the
’Nmaikha, farther than any of our officers had yet penetrated.[240]
Returning to camp at midday, we bathed in the ice-cold water of the
river, fresh from the snowy hills.
From ’Nsentaru we marched through Kwitu and across the Irrawaddy to
Myitkyina, then the headquarters of a subdivision. It was but a small
village, with very humble public buildings, well placed on a high bank
of the river, whose waters flowed clear as crystal. Now it is the
terminus of the railway, a flourishing town, with many Indian settlers,
the resort of fishermen who catch mahseer of ever-increasing weight. We
rode to the confluence where the ’Nmaikha and Mali-kha join to form the
Irrawaddy, more than a thousand miles from the sea; a very picturesque
spot, with the mountain-streams rushing and tumbling over rocks and
boulders. We returned on rafts, and were privileged to shoot the rapids
which impede the navigation of the river above Myitkyina. They are not
much to boast of as rapids, but the raftsmen made a fat fuss, shouting
and hustling as we toiled through the eddies.
From Myitkyina we rode inland to Mogaung, a singularly unpleasant
town, important as a trading centre. In the regions north-west of
Mogaung comes almost all the jade yet discovered; the rest is found
in Turkestan. Though lovely and ornamental, jade is not classed as a
precious stone, and has little vogue in Europe except for hilts of
daggers in ladies’ novels. Chinese merchants have a practical monopoly,
and most of the stone goes to China, where it is properly appreciated
by a nation of artistic taste. The right of levying _ad valorem_ duty
on all jade brought to Mogaung is farmed out by Government. As the
value of a piece of jade in the rough cannot be determined accurately,
the business of dealing and of farming is distinctly speculative. The
value is revealed by cutting; the duty is paid on uncut stones. The
farmer assesses the duty on any piece of stone brought in. The owner
has the option of either paying the duty or selling it to the farmer at
the farmer’s valuation. This plan insures fair dealing on both sides.
But there is always the attractive element of chance. Except for the
jade business and some historic associations, Mogaung was a dull and
uninteresting place. Our objective was the lovely lake of Indawgyi,
which I was not to see till nearly twenty years after.[241]
Sudden news came of a Kachin rising on the eastern frontier. The escort
of a civil officer had been attacked, and had suffered some loss. The
border might be ablaze. The Deputy Commissioner must hasten to the
spot; nor could the Commissioner remain unconcerned. We rode to Sinbo
next day, covering nearly fifty miles on one pony apiece, carrying no
kit and taking no attendants, our rations in our saddle-bags. At Sinbo
we found a launch and all necessary comforts provided by Mr. George’s
forethought. Next day, as soon as the morning mist had lifted, the
launch started, and in two minutes was fast on a sandbank. Not all the
labours of the villagers, who turned out _en masse_, availed to move
it a foot. Resolved to reach Bhamo that day, we took a small boat and
began the passage of the Defile. It was plain paddling with the stream,
but parlous slow, and hot and cramped. When we were about half-way
through, our luck changed. We met a Government launch, which we boarded
and turned about. So at sundown we landed at Bhamo. Half an hour later
the launch abandoned at Sinbo also arrived.
Next morning we set out for the frontier. Riding most of the day and
night, stumbling after dark on narrow ridges[242] between rice-fields,
at about midnight we came into camp, not without some slight risk of
being shot by a zealous sentry. All escorts within range having been
bidden by telegraph and signal to combine, quite a considerable force
of military police and a dozen British officers were assembled. It was
as if the Deputy Commissioner, fulfilling Pompey’s thrasonical boast,
had stamped upon the ground and raised legions. This sudden show of
strength, coupled with Mr. George’s tact and management, speedily
restored peace. Leaving him to distribute rewards and penalties, I
rode back with a tin of bully beef for sustenance, and a couple of
sowars as escort. On the way I slept at the Kachin village of Pônkan,
where I was hospitably entertained by the Duwa, who not many years
before had literally held Bhamo in terror. He was a tall and handsome
savage, but somewhat given to drink. At Bhamo I spent the next hundred
hours in making up six weeks’ arrears of office-work. Then I took a
day’s rest.
This was my best tour. But all the travelling in the Northern Division
was full of interest. Mogôk and the Ruby Mines provided an agreeable
interlude. Katha, a pestilential district in the rains, was perfect
marching ground in the dry season. Wuntho, but lately brought into
line, was revisited, and Piulebu, on the bank of the Mu River, once
the Sawbwa’s strong place of refuge, inspected. With me rode my old
friend Maung Aung Zan,[243] now subdivisional officer. Though of the
girth regarded as suitable for a high official, and weighing, as he
told me, 45 viss,[244] Aung Zan found a pony to carry him. His local
knowledge was invaluable. We came to Mansi, at the end of the Banmauk
road, which breaks off so abruptly that one feels as if another step
would take one over the world’s edge into the abyss. Here was some
excitement, the police post being threatened by a jungle fire rapidly
nearing the wooden stockade. In these remote parts the people, of Shan
race, were primitive folk of simple and engaging manners. Extremely
poor, they earned a scanty livelihood in the forests, or by fishing, or
by laborious cultivation of miscellaneous crops. Here, as elsewhere,
courtesy and hospitality abounded. At the entrance of every village
the headman and villagers came out to welcome us, the girls dressed in
their simple best, bearing offerings of water and flowers. Inspecting
a Court on this tour, I was refreshed by finding a case in which trial
by ordeal for witchcraft was the main incident. The suspected witch was
tied up in the fearless old fashion, and thrown into a stream. As she
sank, and was with difficulty rescued, her innocence was made clear.
The cause of action in the judicial case was her claim for damages for
defamation. She was awarded £4 and costs.
The Commissionership of the Northern Division was probably the most
interesting office in Burma. Mandalay itself always seemed to me a
goodly place wherein to live. ’Tis true that for a couple of months
or so the heat is great; but though the thermometer rises to 110° or
more, the climate is dry, and yet we do not seem to have the excessive,
suffocating heat, day and night, of the plains of Northern India.
Again, every æsthetic and artistic taste is gratified. Never to be
forgotten are the battlements of the walls, the purple shadows on
the eastern hills, the glowing sunsets on the moat, the splendour of
moonlight in the Palace corridors. The frontier work was absorbing,
and occasionally exciting; the ordinary executive work enough to occupy
one’s time without being unduly exacting. Of the touring I have already
tried to create an impression. Just across the road, too, so to speak,
was the new hill-station of May-my̆o, then coming into notice. The
railway to Lashio, in the Northern Shan States, was being made, and had
not yet reached May-my̆o; but it was easy to get up for a week-end. A
drive of fourteen miles along the Aungbinle-bund to Tônbo, then a ride
of thirty miles, with a change of ponies at Pyintha; with an early
start, May-my̆o was reached in time for breakfast. We rode up by the
railway road to the Zibingyi plateau, a craggy path sometimes rendered
hazardous by showers of boulders rained down after blasting operations
on the line above. Thence part of the route was over the plateau,
through pleasant jungle-tracks, part along the embankment, where the
rails were not yet laid. Returning by the same way, we got back to
Mandalay by office-hours on Monday. May-my̆o was still in bud, perhaps
even more delightful than in its fuller bloom. Sweet were the rides
through bracken and underwood, with the chance of losing one’s way and
a possible thrill of meeting a bear. And cheerful the gatherings at the
Club, the trivial social pleasures in which all took part. Mandalay
itself was a large military station, where good-fellowship has always
reigned.
It was therefore with regret that, early in 1894, I received Sir
Alexander Mackenzie’s summons to Rangoon to act as Chief Secretary
for Mr. Symes, on furlough. At the time I was acting as Judicial
Commissioner in a temporary vacancy caused by Mr. Burgess’s absence on
privilege leave. As was our custom in those days, I obeyed the order
without remonstrance.