A Civil Servant in Burma

Next morning we set out for the frontier. Riding most of the day and night, stumbling after dark on narrow ridges242 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.

CHAPTER XV

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 boy245 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.

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 those248 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.

CHAPTER XVI

MANDALAY—THE BOUNDARY COMMISSION

Early in 1897 I was once more in Mandalay, well pleased to be again among my friends in Upper Burma. In the short period of my charge of the Mandalay Division occurred the inevitable rising for which the time was ripe. In Burma a small rebellion breaks out with almost seasonable regularity. One evening, as I was on the point of going to the Club, then sumptuously housed in the western halls of the Palace, Mr. (now Sir George) Scott came in. Instead of going to the Club, we drove round Mandalay Hill. It was October, and the festival which marks the end of Buddhist Lent was being celebrated. At the Kuthodaw249 Pagoda we alighted and mingled with the crowd. Pwès were being played, and the scene was vivid with a gay and giddy throng of men, women, and children, decked with jewels and clad in rainbow-coloured silks. We met several friends, among them the Shwehlan Myowun, with whom Mr. Scott renewed an old acquaintance.250 This was not the time of year when disturbance is expected. The October festival is one of peace and good-will, when the shadows of Lent have departed, when merry lights go sailing down the river, when the prospect of harvest is in sight. It is, moreover, a sure sign that no trouble is apprehended when women and children are seen in swarms at pwès and public assemblies. So with cheerful hearts we resumed our drive, while with unconscious irony I explained to Mr. Scott the profoundness of our security, our firm hold on Mandalay, my confidence that nothing untoward could happen without timely warning. We sat down to dinner, and got as far as coffee and cheroots. Sir George Scott still regrets that he never tasted that coffee. For at this moment in ran Mr. Snadden, the Superintendent of Police, saying: “There is an insurrection. You had better come and see about it.” When we arrived on the scene, the insurrection had been suppressed. A very agèd monk had announced himself as the coming King, the reincarnation of a Prince dead some centuries ago. He possessed the power of making his followers invisible and invulnerable, always an advantage, especially to a small force contending against superior numbers. Perhaps his forces would not be so small, for presently he would throw leaves into the air and they would come down as armed men. His occult power he proved by walking thrice round his monastery and disappearing from sight. “Of course,” said the Kinwun Mingyi, as he related the story afterwards, not wishing to impose upon my simplicity, “he hid himself somewhere.” With such old wives’ tales, and with promises of place and power, he beguiled a score of wretched dupes, mostly as old as himself. They sat and plotted beneath the humble mat-and-thatch monastery where the monk lived. My confidence that we should be warned in time was not misplaced. The local police inspector was told by a woman that a conspiracy was being hatched. The cry of “Wolf!” had been so often raised that he was mildly incredulous. When she led him to see the conspirators, and he found a lot of old men telling their beads, his unbelief was confirmed, and he declined to listen to the story. His want of faith cost him his appointment.

When the eventful evening came, armed only with swords and short spears hidden in the sleeves of their jackets, without a firearm of any kind, the little band marched to the taking of the walled city of Mandalay, garrisoned by two or three regiments. Their goal was the Palace where, said the monk, “when I take my seat on the throne, Burma will be my kingdom and the heretic kalas will flee.” Almost at the outset, they were diverted from their purpose. Crossing the moat by the South Bridge, they came upon a British soldier walking with an Englishwoman. “Behold the enemy; slay them,” cried the mad monk. Hotly pursued, the luckless pair ran through the South Gate.251 I regret to say that the police guard at the gate fled. Close by, in a large compound, stood the house of Major W. H. Dobbie252 of the Indian Army. The woman ran along the garden fence, while the man darted in and gave the alarm. Then this nameless hero, alone and unarmed, went back to help his companion and met death unafraid. The woman, grievously wounded, survived. With his revolver, and supplied with cartridges by his gallant wife, Major Dobbie ran out and met the rebels at his gate. Single-handed, he held them at bay, doing much execution, till some other officers, attracted by the firing, came to his aid and completed the rout. In the city gateway a running fight ensued. The white walls were splashed with blood which long remained a memorial of that stirring night. One officer received a cut on the head. Of the rebels, five, including the leader, were killed and most were wounded. If the band had pursued its original intention and made straight for the Palace, it would have come upon a few peaceful gentlemen sitting at dinner in the club with no weapons of defence handier than chairs and table-knives. The attempt was an isolated affair, of no political significance, confined to the few fanatics actually engaged. Patrols were sent out and rewards proclaimed. Within a week we picked up all the surviving rebels. After trial, ten were hanged in the presence of many spectators; the rest were sent to transportation. In the jail I spoke to one of the leaders, a man of fair position, somewhat past middle age, the Kappiya-taga253 of the dead monk’s monastery. He explained that he had no enmity or cause of enmity against Government. Ambition was the motive which impelled him. He was to be the new King’s Chief Minister. The fortune of war being against him, he submitted to the penalty without complaint.

The story is pitiful enough. These petty risings are of periodical occurrence, and seem to be peculiar to Burma. Three or four have broken out in the last few years. They are never of sufficient importance to cause any anxiety to Government. The sorrow and misery fall on ignorant, misguided peasants who are led astray by some soi-disant Prince. Always a pretender to royal blood, a Minlaung or embryo Prince, with power to work marvels, to bring fire forth from his arm, to kindle mystic lights, or cause gilding to be laid by unseen hands on a pagoda; always fairy-tales of charms against death and wounds. It seems impossible to cure this insane disease of flocking to a pretender’s standard. For the sake of the people themselves, these outbreaks must be suppressed with severity. We used to regard crimes against the State as crimes of the worst character, not as venial offences to be treated tenderly. This is the only kind of sedition which has hitherto troubled Burma. The mass of the people, no less than the educated classes, are too proud to follow demagogues from Bombay or Bengal. They seem to be too intelligent to hanker after representative institutions unsuited to the genius of the race. Recognizing that they already take a great part in the administration, they feel assured that as they show themselves fit, higher offices will be thrown open to their ambition. Enlightened Burmans see that the good of the people is the sole desire of Government, and that this is promoted by due submission to constituted authority, not by liberty of fluent rhetoric. While, therefore, other parts of India were seething with sedition, Burma alone remained unmoved, pursuing its steady march of progress. The speed of the march would be accelerated if Burma had more of its own money to spend, and if it were not often hampered by being made to conform to Indian precedents. All that we knew of sedition was the deportation of certain ring-leaders to Burma, where they were not likely to be regarded with any interest or sympathy.