A Civil Servant in Burma

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 Bo149 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 Hussein150 at the Mohurram. Pilcher was a scholar with a touch of genius; his early death was a loss to the State.

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 Thwethaukgyi153 Tun Baw and his subordinates, with chatties154 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 Tower155 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 Myowun157 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 Sawbwa164 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 Allen165) 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 Win167 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 amáts168 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.

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. Hildebrand170 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. Stedman172 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