TRIP TO BENARES.—CAWNPORE.—AGRA.—HOMEWARD VOYAGE IN THE S. S.
“VIXEN.”—DISTRESS.—PERILOUS TRAMP.—ADEN AT LAST.—SUEZ
CANAL.—ENGLAND.—AFRICA ONCE MORE.
Having finished all the “red tape” (which the nature of my peculiar
charge demanded) with Dr. Grant, the coolie emigration agent in
Calcutta, I made arrangements with the captain of the _Vixen_, then
lying in the Hooghly, to take medical charge of his steamer on her
return voyage through the Suez Canal to England.
As she did not sail until the 6th of the month (May), I found I had time
enough left to visit, as I had proposed to myself, the principal scenes
of the Indian mutiny. After spending several days in Calcutta, I left
Hourah, where the station of the East Indian Railway is, at the other
side of the river, and took a return ticket allowing me to stop anywhere
en route to Agra and back.
If I were to describe the whole of my trip, of which I wrote a full
account at the time, I am afraid I should weary my readers, the
circumstances and places connected with the memorable outbreak of the
Indian mutiny being too well known to bear repetition.
I may, however, briefly state that I visited the French settlement of
Chandernagore, twenty-two miles from Calcutta, like a French oasis in an
English desert, or a French desert in an English oasis, as my readers
may prefer, being only two miles long by one broad, and passing by
numberless stations, rested at Dinapore, and then went straight on to
Benares, the Holy City. Here the bridge of boats across the Ganges, the
thousands of temples and mosques, especially the Doorga Khoud, or monkey
temple, and its chattering, grinning crew of sacred inhabitants, the
numberless splendid _ghats_ along the river side, with thousands of men
and women bathing and praying, the Lingam, or well of life, at which all
pilgrims drink, the burning “ghat” where bodies after being reduced to
ashes are committed to the Holy River, and the Mosque of Aurunzebe, kept
me well employed for a day or two. I then visited Mirzapore, Allahabad,
a great railway centre, and came on to Cawnpore, saw, of course, the
Memorial Garden, the well down which “a great company of Christian
people, chiefly women and children,” the dying and the dead, were thrown
by the order of Nana Sahib, and then branched off to Lucknow. Never
shall I forget the scene presented by the Kaiser Bagh, the great work of
the ex-king’s reign, and its gardens, the Secunderbagh, where the 93d
Highlanders and 53d foot, in fearful revenge, bayoneted to a man 2,000
rebel Sepoys, the fantastic _Martiniere_, a school founded by an
eccentric Frenchman formerly in the service of the Hon. East India Co.,
about eighty-five years ago, the Residency, where for five long months a
little band of noble hearts held out, and the room where the shell burst
that was the death of Sir Henry Lawrence. I walked along the portico so
graphically pictured by Trevelyan in his “Cawnpore,” which called to my
mind the passage where he says: “Still, amidst the fantastic edifices of
Lucknow, hard by a shattered gateway, rise or lie prostrate the pillars
of a grass-grown portico. Beneath that verandah, in the July evening,
preferring the risk of the hostile missiles to the confinement of a
stifling cellar, was dying Henry Lawrence, the man who tried to do his
duty.... An Englishman does not require any extraneous incentives to
emotion when, leaning against the beams of that archway, he recalls who
have thereby gone in and out, bent on what errands and thinking what
thoughts. Between those doorposts have walked Peel and Havelock, and
gentle Outram and stout Sir Colin, heroes who no longer tread the
earth.” The ruins of the Residency and the adjoining houses have been
allowed to remain as far as possible in the state they were left after
“the relief.” To describe, however, the cemetery close by, with its
beautifully cut green-grass turf, to picture the tombstones to loved
husbands, erected by devoted wives, and recount their deeply touching
inscriptions, to portray the monuments in remembrance of comrades in
arms carried away by war, cholera, dysentery and fever, or to tell of
others, on which were written all manner of poetical extracts and
quotations from Holy Writ, would be an impossibility. Full of melancholy
memories is the spot, and it was with a sense of relief I left the
mournful scene. I then started for Agra, 906 miles by railway from
Calcutta, visited the fort overlooking the Jumna, saw the celebrated
bath with its mimic cascades in the Monarch’s Palace, and then drove to
the Taj Mahal, a mausoleum built by the Shah Jehan for the tomb of his
favorite Begum, which was finished just forty years ago at a cost of
£3,000,000, heard the delicious undulations and marvelous acoustic
properties of its dome, dwelt with astonishment on the jeweler’s inlaid
work of jasper, agate, cornelian and other precious stones in the fine,
white polished marble, and admired the noble cypress trees growing in
the gardens. After resting here a day or two I returned to Calcutta well
pleased with my excursion.
Leaving by the _Vixen_, we steamed down the Bay of Bengal and stayed for
a few hours at Madras, on leaving which place our troubles began.
Accidents were continually happening to the engines, delays were
constantly occurring, the wind was against us, until matters culminated
as I will allow my letter to tell.
“IN THE RED SEA, June 20th, 1871.
“MY DEAR ——: Since writing to you from Calcutta we have been dragging
along a weary existence in such a steamer! what with opposing
currents, head winds and weak power, we only just managed to make Cape
Guardafui, when our coal ran short, such a game! hen-coops, wooden
boxes, spare spars, cabin partitions, then the masts were burned to
keep us going. At last the captain sent the chief officer away in an
open boat to Aden, which was distant some forty miles, on Sunday
evening the 4th, to try and obtain a tug or coal. After he left, the
steamer would not even steer under the sail she carried, but drifted
down on the Arabian coast, until we were compelled to anchor on
Wednesday, about 9 A. M. The captain and myself, with four boatmen, at
once went on shore to see what the country was like and to see if wood
was procurable. As you can imagine, distilling water with spars worth
from £20 to £50 each was not a paying game. We landed and found low
brushwood which would answer the purpose, and immediately signaled the
steamer for another boat and a working party to come off; we then
walked in the direction of some lofty mountains inland, when we saw
the natives, roving Arabs and Somalis, coming down in force; the
captain and I approached them. There was nothing else to be done, for
we were too far from the boats to retire, and found them all more or
less armed, the majority with old-fashioned matchlocks. Of course we
did not relish these appearances, as in addition they had large knives
stuck in their girdles, and all the books of sailing directions for
this coast characterize them as bloody, cut-throat, treacherous
wretches. One of the boatmen, however, who came on shore with us, on
seeing them, ran off to the beach. Luckily for us the second boat had
just arrived, and meeting the crew he told them of our situation, and
they came running to our assistance. This had a salutary effect upon
them, and gave us an opportunity to retire. As matters on board were
proceeding to extremities, and seeing there was a doubt whether the
mate had got to land or not, I volunteered, with the second steward
and two darkies, to walk to Aden. The captain said the distance was
about sixty miles, but we found it, however, in the long run, to be
nearer 160. These Arabs seemed of two parties, and one of the more
friendly made signs in the direction of Aden, as if he would accompany
us there.
“Persuading the captain to let me go, away I went with my companions
at 3 P. M., armed, but with very little water or provisions, as I
fully anticipated reaching Aden, by walking all night, at about ten
o’clock next day. We walked at a good pace, as we were going through a
country peopled by tribes not to be depended on, keeping the sea-beach
in order to push through and get past a point where probably they
might intercept us. We walked until after dark, took a rest and bath
in the sea, and then pushing on, as we heard guns firing in the pitchy
darkness both on our right and left. The phosphorescence of the
breaking surf casting a lurid glare over all. Our guide seemed uneasy,
fired his gun, and then away he went. We thought we were in a regular
trap; lying down on the sand, straining our eyes in the dismal
darkness, we talked over the folly of our starting, asked ourselves
who would thank us if we got our throats cut, and then, seeing our
revolvers all right, we determined to sell our lives as dearly as we
could if attacked. After an hour’s anxious watching and waiting for
the moon, up came three camels with the guide whom we had suspected of
playing us false. He urged us to hurry on, which you may guess we did,
not stopping until 2:30 next morning, nearly done up. Stretching
ourselves out, sleep wanted no wooing. I was off in a minute, and from
the appearance of the moon must have slept about an hour, when we were
awakened by a terrible hot wind. You cannot imagine anything like it;
my hair was dry as stubble in a few moments, nearly stifled,
suffocated, the only shelter I could get was to the ‘leeward’ of a
camel. This wind continued for an hour, when we saddled up and away
again. Let me tell you what camel riding is like. If you can fancy
yourself in a blanket, with a man at each end holding it, and shaking
you continually from one to the other, you may have some faint
conception, but mounting is the worst. The camels are made to squat on
their bellies to enable you to get up, otherwise a ladder would be
needed. Well, when you are in the saddle, which is generally a most
clumsy, primitive arrangement, the camel gets on its knees, which
sends you backward, then up go the hind legs, and you get a contra
pitch forward, and just as you are anticipating to salute your mother
earth, he raises his fore legs, tosses you backward again, and you
find yourself mounted. One of my black companions had a young, frisky
camel which when he jumped on it made these movements so quickly that
number two generally sent him over the camel’s head or left him
hanging on by his legs, heels up, head down, round his neck. It is
always to me intensely ludicrous to hear a nigger swear in English,
and I think the most rigid Puritan would have laughed, at any rate in
his sleeve, to hear this darkie ‘G-d d—n this young fellow (as he
termed the camel) to ——!’ and consign himself, the ship, the country,
the water, or rather the want of it, to eternal perdition, which he
did with a gusto perfectly exhilarating.
“We journeyed along on this day (Thursday) without intermission,
alternately riding and walking, under a blazing sun, whose piercing
rays almost struck us to the ground, blistering and swelling our backs
and feet even through our boots and clothes, until 11 A. M., when our
guide told us we were approaching the confines of a friendly sultan,
who rejoiced in the name of Hyder, surnamed the ‘six-fingered,’ on
account of this work of supererogation accomplished by nature on his
behalf. Sending on a messenger to apprise his highness of our coming,
we gradually came in sight of a large mud fort, with some buildings
alongside, a small mosque, with date trees around, and the remains of
what once must have been a large city. Off-saddling at a distance of
about 200 yards, a messenger came to us from the sultan, shook hands
with us all, and then taking mine in his, like two schoolboys, we
advanced a short distance, stood in line, fired a salute, and then
walked up to be presented. The sultan, who was a fine-looking fellow,
stood outside a small tent (which was matted inside and had carpets
for himself and his visitors) with a body-guard on each side of about
thirty men. All tattered and torn, dirty, sunburnt and unshaven, we
were sad specimens indeed of Englishmen. I felt, for my part, somewhat
ashamed of myself. He, however, received us most graciously, shook
hands and invited us in, coffee was served in little cups, as hot and
bitter as Cayenne pepper, and cold water was also supplied, a beverage
which I never before so truly appreciated. Milk, dates, goat’s flesh,
round cakes made of grain, were given us as well. Did not we eat!—no
questions as to knives, forks, plates or dishes—our black friend
simultaneously falling to. It is in cases like this only that one
appreciates a man as a man; my hard-swearing friend being a regular
good fellow.
“After this, the sultan, whom we managed to understand, expressed his
pleasure at our having escaped with our lives from the tribes
inhabiting the locality where we landed and through which we had
passed, and wished me to give him a written acknowledgment of our
having left his place in safety, so that if anything befell us between
there and Aden, he would have this paper to show the English
government. Moreover, as he lived a mile from the sea, and possessed
boats, he offered to send a boat’s crew of ten men to the steamer at
once, to give the shadow, if not the reality of his protection, and
also offered us a boat to Aden. As I was suspicious, I declined giving
him the document he wanted until we were in the boat, but he pressed
very much for it, so at last I gave it him, but started immediately,
so that we might get clear of his people if he meant treachery.
Arriving at the beach, the boat getting ready to take us to Aden was
such a small, leaky, crazy thing, and the sea was running so high
outside and the surf breaking so heavily on the beach, that I demurred
going in it. Fancy spending two days and a night in an open boat of
that description. For my own part I would ten times sooner get shot at
on land with a chance of escape than be upset at sea, and finish my
career with a stomach full of salt water. So we started away again
with the camels, getting water at a well close by to take with us,
which we carried in skins tied to their sides. Most of these people
had never seen a white man before. We saw some women at this well, not
bad looking; one of them had a baby, which she carried in a sort of
triangular flat wicker basket under her arm. She was quite afraid of
me when I went near to look at it. Pushing on until long after sunset,
and striking inland for a few miles from the coast, we came at last to
a camp of Bedouins in a district of bare sand (with a little low bush
interspersed), drifted into mounds like snow driven by the wind. There
were also, here and there, the dry beds of rivulets, which in the wet
season take the water of the hills to the sea. Here we rested for the
night, and a lovely night it was, magnificently starlight and the
atmosphere beautifully clear. Lying down, in less than a minute I was
oblivious to everything here below. I left one of the darkies to keep
watch, but starting up in a short time, I found the revolvers I had
laid at my head gone and the nigger fast asleep. Presently our Arab
guide, seeing me moving, came back with them from an adjoining
camp-fire of Bedouins, where he had been exhibiting them and his
knowledge of firearms at the same time, and what was better still,
brought with him some goats’ milk and dates. Next morning the camels
were lost, and we did not start until 7 o’clock. The intermediate time
we occupied in rifle and pistol practice with the Arabs who came
flocking around us at daybreak. They were very civil, seeing we had
one of the sultan’s men with us. We took away a small goat on credit,
as between this and Aden we understood we should get no more food.
Another frightful, scorching day (Friday) succeeded, but there was
nothing for it but to go on.
“My companion, who at the beginning of the trip had been very lively,
continually singing ‘Up in a balloon, boys; up in a balloon,’ had come
down from his lofty aspirations to the level of this world again, and
a little below. The ‘Dead March in Saul’ would now have been too quick
for him to march to. My black friend’s oaths were getting less fervid,
and your humble servant was beginning to feel as if he would have
liked to ‘rest in peace.’ However, being the head of the party he had
the _morale_ to keep up, so on we went; at 1.30 P. M., after six and a
half hours killing exposure, we arrived at a small, squalid, mud-built
village of Arabs. Everything was baked and parched as if it had been
exposed for months to the blast of a large furnace. They were the most
dirty, diseased, wretched-looking, poverty-stricken creatures I ever
saw; I cannot picture the place to you, the frightful glare of a
copper sky, the monotonous, ever-present sand, no vegetation, no
shade, no living creature, save here and there a wretched camel, a fit
accompaniment to the general misery, the place seemed perfectly
God-forsaken! We got into the empty upper story of a mud house, and
water was brought, of which we drank greedily. The news of our arrival
spread fast, the room was rapidly filled with men and boys, quite
amazed at seeing us, especially the steward, whose red hair excited a
good deal of curiosity. Getting them out as best we could we managed
to secure a short sleep, during which they killed and cooked the goat
we had brought, so that with a little rice we made a tolerable meal.
Here we got a change of camels and drivers, and started again at 3 P.
M. to a well at some distance to get water, the all-essential for
travel in this country. We found it very good and cold, the well being
at least 140 feet deep, the sides surrounded by marble slabs which
were worn into deep grooves, like the flutings of an Ionic pillar by
the incessant friction of the ropes, which for centuries had drawn out
the leather bags filled with the precious fluid. After leaving the
well a further six hours’ march brought us to another camp of Arabs,
where we only rested from nine until twelve, then off again; no rest
for the wicked. My back, with constant work, was beginning to feel
stiff, and my head to ache—unfortunately we had nothing to eat, and
were yet a long way from Aden. At about 10 A. M. (Saturday) we came to
another Arab mud fort, but could get nothing to eat or drink but some
filthy water, so black and putrid that after each draught I vomited
and vomited again, and some millet seed which we managed to fry.
Proceeding after an hour’s delay, we struck the sea-beach at noon, and
saw the rock of Aden, our haven of rest, looming like a giant spectre
in the distance, right opposite to us across a large bay. The sea
breeze was very pleasant and took away the feeling of intense heat.
“Here we rested to bathe, and then drawing our belts as tightly as
possible across our empty stomachs we jogged wearily along for many an
hour. To our great delight we came across some mussels, which we
greedily swallowed without calling for pepper or vinegar! This was the
most tedious day yet, no food, no water, and this great rock like a
nightmare confronting us in the distance, and to which we seemed never
to get any nearer. The camels were tiring, and we dare not walk on and
leave them, on account of the prowling Somali fishermen. However,
after resisting time after time the imploring entreaties of my
companions to stop, threatening to leave them and push on alone, we
came at 1 A. M. on Sunday to the gates of Aden, found them locked,
threw ourselves down on the roadside, drank until nearly bursting at a
well of brackish water, and slept a dreamless sleep after our
twenty-five hours of travel and exposure. I am thankful that I have a
spirit of dogged perseverance, or we should never have got there that
night at all. The more the poor devils prayed to rest the more I was
determined to go on. The steward had forgotten his songs, even
Snowball, as we called the darkie, had almost ceased to swear, and his
final oath, which came rolling out when he laid himself down to rest,
had a pious, subdued tone of thankfulness in it. Next morning, up with
the sun, we entered Aden as soon as the military opened the gates,
when we fortunately met the agent of the steamer, a Parsee, in his
carriage, who told us the chief officer having got to Aden in safety,
had taken assistance to the steamer, and she had just arrived. He
drove us to his house, where we had a glorious bath and a hearty meal,
told us of the astonishment expressed in Aden at our journey, and the
speculations made as to our ever arriving. We found the government
authorities had been communicated with, and in fact we were the lions
of the hour. Everybody congratulated us, and the ovation we received
on returning to the steamer amply repaid us for the dangers we had
passed. Lieutenant Prideaux, one of the captives during the late
Abyssinian war, who was acting Political Resident at the time, sent
for me to tell my tale, observing that no white man had done what we
had done or been through these tribes since 1845. We stayed in Aden a
few hours while the steamer finished coaling, and amused ourselves
walking around one of the most heaven-forsaken places conceivable.
“Picture to yourself the crater of a volcano with a town built in the
centre, to which access can be gained only through a gap, so to speak,
in the wall, conjure up in your imagination a place where sometimes a
shower of soothing rain never falls for years together, and then you
can fancy Aden. I send you a photograph of the tanks built to catch
and preserve the rain when it does fall.”
I shall not weary my readers with the details of my succeeding letter,
as I should be merely re-treading familiar ground, but I may simply
mention that waiting at Aden for a day to coal, we steamed slowly up the
Red Sea without any incident worthy of note occurring, until arriving at
Ismailia in the Suez Canal, where we remained over the night. This gave
me an opportunity of landing, seeing the place and the beautiful house
and gardens of Ferdinand de Lesseps. We stopped the next night at Port
Said to take in more coal, and continuing our voyage arrived at Malta on
June 30th.
Leaving the _Vixen_ there I proceeded to England, _via_ Marseilles and
Paris, as quickly as I could, as I did not wish to overstep my leave of
absence from the Natal government.
While in England I proceeded to the north, saw the faces of old friends
once more, but as “time and tide wait for no man,” I tore myself away
from old associations, and arranged to return to Africa in the _Celt_,
one of the Union Company’s steamers. We sailed at the end of September,
1871. Fifteen years ago! It is wonderful what competition has done
during these few years in improving the speed and style of the steamers
on this route. Thirty-six long, dreary days we spent then on the _Celt_
between Southampton and the Cape, now a little more than half this time
suffices.
Hurrying on to Natal by the coasting steamer I arrived there after an
absence of nine months, finding all well; but alas! the fortune I
expected from my diamond venture was _non est_. No news whatever had
been received from the men I had sent up country. This fact combined
with the glowing accounts of the richness of the Colesberg Kopje (now
the Kimberley mine), the rapid fortunes made there, and the depressed
state of affairs in Natal, decided me to throw up my government
appointment, and test my luck in the new El Dorado.
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