LOWER BURMA ONCE MORE
The next three years, with a brief interlude of privilege leave, were
spent in Lower Burma. I was Chief Secretary for a year under Sir
Alexander Mackenzie, for nine months under Sir Frederic Fryer, for
three months under Mr. Donald Smeaton, who acted in a privilege-leave
vacancy. Work was sufficient, not excessive. The Province was in
order, and the Secretariat was administered on more regular lines than
in the earlier strenuous years. It was no longer necessary to burn
the midnight oil or to abjure exercise and recreation. Sir Alexander
Mackenzie was a man of extraordinary capacity, and of abnormal, in
my experience unexampled, speed of work. Throughout the day four
Secretaries toiled and filled office-boxes with files; by nine o’clock
next morning all came back with the Chief Commissioner’s orders noted
on them. It hardly seemed as if he could have had time to untie the
bundles. Yet we had frequent evidence that cases were not dealt with
perfunctorily. The speed with which Sir Alexander Mackenzie got to
the root of a case, however elaborate or involved, seemed almost
supernatural. He left the Secretaries to do their own work, and
wrote less than any other Chief I have known. A line of his writing
would be the basis of a long draft. The least obstinate of men, he
invited criticism and free expression of opinion, and was not afraid
of changing his mind. But he was the strong man, the mainspring and
motive-power of the Administration. No Secretary cherished the delusion
that he was running the Province. We felt that he was the player whose
organ-keys were thunders, and we, beneath his foot, the pedal pressed.
Parenthetically, it may be observed that in Burma, and probably in
other Provinces which do not enjoy the blessing of Executive Councils,
the theory that Secretaries are supreme has no foundation in fact.
The power and subtle intrigues ascribed to provincial Secretariats
are the vain imaginings of people who have had no experience of their
working from within. The nonsense asserted or hinted by such persons is
incredible, and would be ludicrous but for its effect on others equally
ill-informed. Sir Alexander Mackenzie was a genial and appreciative
Chief, under whom it was a pleasure to work. As an administrator he
was not in the same class as his immediate predecessor, nor did he
inspire the personal enthusiasm and affection which many of us felt
for Sir Charles Bernard and Sir Charles Crosthwaite. But we respected
his marvellous ability, and were grateful for his uniform kindness.
According to popular belief, having finished his work before breakfast,
he spent the rest of the day on a sofa reading light literature till it
was time for tennis.
A distinguished visitor to Burma at this time was Lord Randolph
Churchill. As Secretary of State when Upper Burma was annexed, he
had a close association with the Province. The recollection of this
was often in his mind, and gave a personal interest to his visit to
Mandalay. His coming to Burma was tinged with melancholy, as his health
was broken, and it was not long before his premature death. It is a
privilege to have met him, even though not in his brilliant day, and it
is a pleasant thought that he was able to see the country which he was
instrumental in adding to the Empire.
Again I must confess that life in the Secretariat, interesting enough
to the workers, presented few incidents likely to enthrall the most
sympathetic reader. The more smoothly the machinery worked, the fewer
sparks were thrown off. Even in the Province, the happier the people,
the less material for the bookmaker. True, there were exciting events
even in that peaceful time. Two which startled us out of our equanimity
may be recalled. Mr. Tucker, a member of a well-known family,
many of whom have served the Crown in India, at the time District
Superintendent of Police in Pegu, was an excellent shot and a notable
sportsman. One night, when on tour in a country boat, he was aroused by
the report of a dacoity close by. Leaping on shore at once, and calling
to his boy[245] to bring his gun and cartridges, he hastened towards
the scene. As he ran along the bank, he was shot dead by dacoits,
without a chance of defending himself. It was one of the ironies of
fate that he, better than most men qualified for resistance, should
have fallen thus obscurely. One by one all concerned in the crime
were brought to justice, though some years passed before the tale was
complete. The other lurid incident was the plunder of the mail-train
between Yamèthin and Pyinmana, when Nelson, the guard, was murdered.
The miscreants who perpetrated this daring outrage are believed to have
been natives of India, formerly employed on the railway and conversant
with its working. Boarding the train at Yamèthin, they tampered with
the couplings of the brake-van, of which one compartment was obligingly
labelled “Treasure and valuables.” At a lonely place they completed
the severance of the van from the rest of the train, which went on,
unconscious of the act. The unarmed guard was cut down and the treasure
carried off. It was believed at the time that the real criminals were
brought to trial. After protracted proceedings, they were finally
acquitted on appeal.
The year 1896 saw the very last of the dacoit Bos. Ten years before, Bo
Cho had harried Myingyan and Pagan, the leader of a formidable gang;
once, when he met Captain Eyre, he is said to have led seven hundred
men. Unlike other Bos, he was neither killed nor captured, nor did he
surrender. When his band melted away, and dacoity became too hazardous
a sport, he simply disappeared. Either he was dead, or he had plunged
into effectual obscurity in the comparatively dense population of the
Delta. Actually, he was living as a peaceful cultivator in a village
in the middle of the Myingyan district. There he might have spent the
rest of his days, perhaps becoming in time a Kyaung-taga, or even a
Headman. No one would have dreamt of betraying him even for the price
set upon his capture. Did not the munificent offer of Rs. 20,000 fail
to tempt any follower of Gaung Gyi?[246] But after a time, apparently
weary of a life of inaction, Bo Cho became restless. With two sons,
he took to the jungle and began again the old trade of dacoity.
Experience of the early years of the pacification was utilized. Mr.
W. R. Stone,[247] a newly joined Assistant Commissioner, with a small
force of military and civil police, and with selected Burman officers
to help him, was told off to catch Bo Cho. He was given full authority
under the Village Regulation, and a free hand. The invaluable power of
removing to a distance friends and relatives of dacoits was unsparingly
exercised. In a few weeks Mr. Stone dispersed the gang and captured Bo
Cho and his sons, who were duly hanged in the Myingyan Jail.
[Illustration: BO CHO AND HIS SONS.]
Rejoining after short leave at the end of 1896, I became Commissioner
of the Irrawaddy division, and after many years again saw Bassein and
even Pantanaw. Seen in the light of larger experience, and from the
melancholy mound of advancing years, Bassein seemed quite different
from the gay station of our giddy youth. Really, it was much the same,
and in some ways it had improved. I found many old friends among
Burmans, officials, advocates, and traders. Every greybeard wagged his
head and welcomed me as contemporary. Seriously, I was very glad to
see these old gentlemen, and not to find myself forgotten. But I could
not disguise from myself, perhaps not from others, that my heart was
in Upper Burma; that I found the Delta folk, at least in the larger
towns and villages, sophisticated and with too large a mingling of
Kalas, and that I pined for Mandalay. The work was substantial but
not overwhelming; there was still time for the judicial part of it.
We were in Irrawaddy only for the dry months, and were able to make
some pleasant tours. Conditions of travelling by water were vastly
better than in early days. There was already one house-boat, which,
towed by a launch, was an agreeable substitute for the rice-boat of
our youth. The Commissioner had not yet a house-boat of his own, such
as that enjoyed by the present pampered official; but on occasion we
borrowed one from the friendly Deputy Commissioner of Maubin, Major
Macnabb. In the northern part of the division travelling by land was
easy in the dry weather. One exceedingly enjoyable tour in that part
lives in my memory. We rode from Henzada to Ngathaing-gyaung traversing
subdivisions held by two native officers, Maung Tin Gyaw and Maung Ba
Bwa.
Much has been said and written about the corruption of Burmese
officials. To hear some people, you would think there was no such rare
bird, if indeed he be not fabulous, as an honest Burman in Government
service. I am happy to say that my experience enables me to place
on record a far more favourable judgment. It would be absurd to
pretend that corruption did not exist, even that it was very unusual.
It has been my fortune many times to recognize, expose, and punish
corrupt officers. Both in Upper and in Lower Burma we inherited the
traditions of a feeble Oriental Government, and it was impossible
that evil practices should not abound. Township officers and their
subordinates, all natives of the Province, exercised great power, often
free from constant and close supervision. To the mass of the people,
in their daily life, the township officer and Thugyi, even more than
the Deputy Commissioner, represented the Government. Furthermore, in
early days the native services were ill-paid and had poor prospects of
advancement. Till an honourable tradition was established, it could
not be expected that all would resist the many temptations in their
path. Recognizing and admitting all these grounds of reserve, I am
satisfied that very many Burmese officers have been perfectly honest
and have faithfully justified the trust reposed in them. Men there are
in whom I have such confidence that, were it shown to be misplaced, my
faith in human nature would be shattered. In recent years the pay and
prospects of Burmese officers have been improved (_quorum pars exigua
fui_). They now have fair wages and many roads to dignity and honour.
Partly for this reason, partly from higher motives, a sound tradition
is gradually becoming crystallized, and year by year the standard of
morality is being raised.
Of those[248] who, in comparatively early times, set a shining example
of probity and efficiency, Maung Tin Gyaw was a fine specimen. Of
good Talaing stock, he was one of the ablest native officers I have
known. His father and uncle, whom a flippant but kindly, experienced,
and appreciative Deputy Commissioner used to call Romulus and Remus,
were Circle Thugyis, when I knew them venerable white-haired men of
distinguished appearance. One of them bore honourable scars of wounds
received in action in the troubles of 1885. Maung Tin Gyaw himself,
then in the prime of life, was a man of courage, resolution, and
independence. Well educated as a boy, but only in the vernacular, in
adult life he had succeeded in teaching himself enough English to
enable him to read the _Gazette_ with moderate ease. With lighter
English literature I fear he was unfamiliar. In his subdivision, which
he managed admirably, he had boundless personal influence (awza),
that intangible quality which makes the administrator. Throughout his
career he preserved a reputation for spotless integrity and honesty.
Riding with us through his charge, Maung Tin Gyaw was a very agreeable
companion, prompt in all courteous attentions, always at hand when
required, but never obtruding his society unsought.
At one of our halts he found a wandering monk who had caused some
commotion elsewhere, and was regarded with suspicion as a potential
cause of political trouble. As I have said before, the wandering monk,
who gathers crowds, practises magic, and heals the sick by charms and
incantations, is always distrusted by the district officer. When he
begins to tattoo his followers, it is time to put him on security or
send him to jail. This monk proposed to walk through the subdivision
and proceed to Ngathaing-gyaung. Maung Tin Gyaw regarded this
proposition with disfavour. He forbade the monk to go by land. “In
fact,” said he, “that’s a very tedious and uncomfortable way. Go back
to Henzada, where you will find a steamer which will take you far more
quickly and easily.” “Please tell me,” replied the monk, who was of the
order of sea-lawyers, “by what law you will prevent me from going by
land.” “The law,” said Tin Gyaw, “I will show you in Henzada. But back
you shall go.” And back he went under the friendly escort of a couple
of constables, and so far as I know he gave no further trouble. No
doubt a high-handed and illegal proceeding, but conducive to the peace
of the district, and therefore explicitly approved by the Commissioner.
Some years ago I had to mourn Tin Gyaw’s loss. Till his death he was
one of my most trusted and valued friends. Maung Ba Bwa, our other
companion on this tour, I am glad to say still serves the State. I am
therefore precluded from saying more of him than that he, too, was
an officer of distinction, who for some years managed an important
subdivision never before, I think, placed in charge of a Burmese
officer. That these subdivisions should be entrusted to native Extra
Assistant Commissioners is an indication of the advance made in twenty
years.