Wanderings in India, and Other Sketches of Life in Hindostan

"'But are you not satisfied with my word? Never mind the money and the jewels – much as I should like to see the latter – all I require is the boy,' said the Major.

"'Of course, the Sahib would not speak an untruth knowingly,' returned the Affghan. 'But I require some proof that the boy is the child of certain European parents.'

"'Well, there is the likeness, the unmistakeable likeness, that he bears to his father and his mother.'

"'That will not do,' said the Affghan, interrupting the Major. 'Can you write in the Persian character, Sahib?'

"'Yes.'

"'Then, write the name of this boy's father in the Persian character, and let me see it.'

"The Major did this, and handed it to the Affghan, who looked at the writing, smiled, and said:

"'What else? What was the Sahib's nishan (crest)?'

"'This,' said the Major, holding out the little finger of his right hand, upon which was a signet-ring. 'This was his nishan. We are of the same family, and the nishan is the same.'

"The Affghan, having examined the crest, again smiled, and said: —

"'What else?'

"'What more do you want?' said the Major.

"'Do not be impatient, Sahib,' said the Affghan. 'The identification of a child, who may be an heir to property, is not so light a matter as the purchase of a kitten. Did you know the child's mother?'

"'Yes,' said the Major. 'She was also a relation of mine.'

"'What kind of person was she? Was she handsome?'

"'Very.'

"'The colour of her eyes?'

"'Dark – almost black.'

"'And her hair?'

"'Brown; the colour of this lady's' (pointing to the wife of my friend).

"'If you saw her likeness, in miniature, do you think you could recognise it?'

"'If it were a faithful likeness, I could.'

"The Affghan put his hand into the breast pocket of his chogah, and produced a greasy leathern bag, into the mouth of which he inserted his finger and thumb, and presently produced a small tin box, round and shallow, which he very carefully opened. Having removed some cotton, he handed the box to the Major. All of us instantly recognised the features of the unfortunate lady who had perished by the side of her husband, in Affghanistan. Who could possibly forget that sweet feminine face of hers, which had been painted for her husband by one of the most distinguished miniature painters of the age? The production of the likeness in the presence of the boy (who appeared to take little interest in what was going on), had a sad effect upon the Major. He sat down upon a chair, covered his manly face with his hands, and wept bitterly.

"'And do you know this, Sahib?' asked the Affghan, when the Major had somewhat recovered his violent emotion: placing in his hand poor Percy's seal.

"We all recognised the seal, the crest of which, of course, corresponded with the crest on the signet-ring of the Major.

"'And this?' asked the Affghan, holding up a bracelet which we had seen Mrs. Percy wear many and many a time.

"'And this?' holding up to our gaze a small brooch she used to wear constantly. And, amongst numerous other things, he exhibited to us a little pocket-book, in which she kept her memoranda, such as: – 'November 9th. Cut the ends of my dear little boy's hair. Sent mamma a small portion. – November 12th. Had a long talk to the old ayah, who swore to me that she would … and I believe her, for she has been a good and constant creature to us, in our dangers and our difficulties.'

"'And this? And this? And this? And this?' said the Affghan, withdrawing from the leathern bag its entire contents, every article of which was instantly identified. 'There, Sahib, take them all, and the boy, into your custody. The money, which was left with him, I will restore to you to-night. It is at present in the bazaar, in the charge of my camel, whom no one dare approach, except myself and this boy.'

"Here a very extraordinary and painful, but perhaps natural, scene occurred. The boy, who had been comparatively passive, now broke out into a vehement expostulation, and spoke with a rapidity which was truly amazing, considering that he distinctly enunciated every syllable to which he gave utterance. 'What!' he exclaimed, 'will you then leave me in the hands and at the mercy of these unbelievers? What have I done to deserve this?'

"'Be quiet,' said the Affghan to the boy, in a gentle tone of voice.

"'How can I be quiet?' cried the boy, clenching his fists convulsively, and drawing himself up, whilst his eyes glared, and his nostrils dilated, with uncontrollable passion, and something like foam stood upon his crimson lips. There could be no doubt whose child he was, so wonderful in his wrath was the likeness that he bore to his father, who was very seldom provoked to anger, but who, when it did happen, was 'perplexed in the extreme:' in short, a perfect demon until the paroxysm was over.

"'Baba (child)!' said the Major, 'listen to me.'

"'Don't talk to him now, Sahib,' said the Affghan, compassionately. 'In his anger his senses always leave him, and he cannot hear what you say. Let him exhaust his fury upon me. He will be powerless presently.'

"And so it was. After a brief while, the boy sat down on the carpet, gasped for breath, and was seemingly unable to move or speak. The lady of the house offered him a glass of water, but he shrunk back, and declined to receive it from her hand.

"The Affghan took the Major aside, spoke to him in private, and then left the room. Here another very painful scene ensued. The boy, exhausted as he was, attempted to follow his late master; he was restrained, of course; whereupon he uttered the most heart-rending cries that ever were heard. The Major had him conveyed to his bungalow, where a room was set apart for him, and a servant and an orderly had him in their keeping. It was a month before the boy could be reconciled to his 'fate,' as he called it; and soon afterwards arrangements were made for sending him home to his grandfather and grandmother, who are persons of a lofty position in life and very wealthy. They received him with extreme affection, and on the death of his grandfather, he will succeed to a title and an estate worth eleven thousand a-year. The Affghan, who was very fond of the boy, corresponds with him regularly, and they exchange presents, as well as letters.

"Kelly, of the 62nd, who was killed at Ferozeshah, and who formerly belonged to the 13th Foot, when they were in Affghanistan, told me a more curious story of a little girl, than the one I have related to you of this boy."

"What was it?" I asked.

"My dear fellow," said the Lieutenant, "I cannot talk any more just now. You shall have it some other day. We are not going to part company yet, old boy." With these words he fell asleep, his feet over the dashboard, and his head resting on my shoulder.

THE MARCH CONTINUED

The next encampment-ground at which we halted was close to a dâk bungalow; and, during the day, there were several arrivals and departures, the travellers merely halting for an hour or so, while some refreshment was got ready. The Lieutenant, who appeared to know everybody in Hindostan (I never met a person who did not know him), contrived, to use his own phrase, to "screw a small chat out of each of them." On one occasion he returned to the tent richer than he left it. He carried in one hand a small basket containing preserved oysters, crystallized apricots, and captains' biscuits, and in the other a stone bottle of Maraschino. Under his arm was a quantity of gauze, which he wanted for a veil, he said. These contributions he had levied from a lady who was going to Muttra, where her husband was an official of some magnitude. She had just returned from England, the Lieutenant informed me, and was looking as blooming as possible. To my question, "Do you know her?" he responded, "Oh yes; she is one of my sixty!"

"Sixty what?"

"First cousins."

"All in India?"

"Every one of them. My good sir, I have at this moment, in the Bengal Presidency alone, upwards of two hundred and twenty relations and connexions, male and female, and every one of them – that is to say, the men and the boys – in the service of the government."

"Is it possible?"

"Yes. What is more, four-fifths of the number are in the civil service. I should have been in the civil service too, only I was sent away from Haileybury for rebellion and card-playing. It is not an easy matter for me to go to any station in these provinces without finding a cousin in it."

"Do you know the assistant-magistrate of Agra?"

"Yes."

"Is he a cousin of yours?"

"He isn't. But his wife's father and my father were own brothers; so it amounts to pretty much the same thing."

"And do you know the judge of Jampore?" This was a gentleman to whom I had letters of introduction.

"Yes. His mother was my aunt."

"It must be dangerous," I suggested, "to express an opinion of any one in India in the presence of a man who has so very many relations."

"Oh, dear no!" said the Lieutenant. "A man with such a frightful lot of connexions has no right to be, and is not generally, very sensitive. Bless me! if I had nothing to do but to stand up for my relations, I should run the risk of being perpetually knocked down. Life is much too short for that sort of thing. Therefore, when I hear any one abuse or reflect upon any relation or connexion of mine, I am invariably silent; or, if appealed to, express my indifference by a shrug of the shoulders."

Here we were interrupted by the old Soubahdar, who came to the door of the tent. He had dined, washed, smoked, slept, and had now got up to grumble. His huge teak-box, which measured four feet by two, and two feet deep, and without which he never travelled, had received a slight injury, and of this he had come to complain. He said, that in the time of Lord Clive or Lord Lake, if such a thing had happened, the men in charge of the hackeries (carts) would have been hanged on the spot; and Phool Singh Brahmin, whose exertions, he alleged, prevented the utter destruction of the box, would have been promoted to the rank of havildar.

"Clive and Lake!" whispered the Lieutenant to me. "He talks like a leading article in a London newspaper." Then, turning to the old man, he inquired, "Would Lord Clive or Lord Lake have sanctioned your carrying about that beastly trunk on a march at all?"

"Yes, Sahib."

"It is not true. Lord Clive and Lord Lake gained their victories by the help of self-denying men, who cheerfully endured any personal inconvenience; not by a parcel of old grumblers like yourself, who have no right to refer to the career of those illustrious men."

"Sahib, I was with Lord Lake's army."

"Then, that's the very reason that you ought not to be here."

"But our present Colonel, Sahib, was with Lord Lake."

"And I wish he was with Lord Lake now!"

"I shall report this, Sahib."

"Very well. Do!"

Whereupon the old officer left the tent, and the Lieutenant assured me that the Colonel, who was as imbecile as the Soubahdar, would cause the matter to be investigated, and that he, the Lieutenant, would, to a certainty, receive a severe reprimand.

"For what?" I asked.

"For not having made arrangements for the safe conveyance of the baggage, and for having treated with a want of courtesy a native commissioned officer of the regiment. I need scarcely say, that this reprimand will not in any way interfere with my night's rest."

"But, the complainant will forget it," said I, "before he gets back to the regiment."

"Forget it!" exclaimed the Lieutenant. "Forget it! A native – especially a native commissioned officer – forget a grievance! Catch that old man forgetting the slightest unpleasantness that has occurred to him during this march. He will, it is true, forget his present grievance to-morrow, when he has a fresh one; but at the end of the journey they will be forthcoming in a lump."

This prophecy was destined not to be fulfilled; for, presently, a Sepoy came to the Lieutenant, and reported that the Soubahdar was very ill. We hastened to the old man's tent, and found him, strange to say, in the last extremity. He was going very fast; but, nevertheless, he continued to gurgle forth a grievance. He demanded, with his last breath – why the East India Company did not give him his pay, as in Lord Lake's time, in sicca rupees?

"You shall, in future, receive it in sicca rupees," said the Lieutenant, bending over the old man, whose hand he grasped tightly.

"And will my losses be made good?" he asked, with awful energy.

"Yes," said the Lieutenant.

"It is well!" and the old man slipped almost imperceptibly from one world to another.

That the old Soubahdar, who was upwards of eighty, had died of natural causes, there could be no question; but, clamorous as was the entire company for the interment of the body, the Lieutenant determined on taking it to Agra, for the purpose of a surgical examination. Meanwhile the old man's effects were scrupulously collected and put under seal.

We were now only twenty-six miles from Agra, the capital of the North West Provinces, and it was agreed to perform the distance in one march. We therefore started at sundown, and travelled all night. The moon was shining brightly, the road was in excellent order, and, notwithstanding that the old Soubahdar was lying lifeless on the top of some of the treasure-boxes, the Sepoys were in high spirits, and on several occasions even jocular in respect to the deceased's weakness – that of perpetually grumbling.

Shortly after the day had dawned, I beheld on the distant horizon something like a large white cloud. Had we been at sea, I should have said it was a sail or an iceberg, to which it bore a striking resemblance. I pointed it out to the Lieutenant, who smiled.

"Don't you know what that is?" he said.

"No," I answered.

"Can't you guess?"

"No. What is it?"

"That is the famous Taj Mahal. That is the building that defies the most graphic pen in the world to do justice to its grandeur and its transcendent beauty. Bulwer, in the Lady of Lyons, has a passage which sometimes reminds me of the Taj: —

A palace lifting to eternal summerIts marble halls from out a glassy bowerOf coolest foliage, musical with birds.

But how far short must any description of such a place fall! How far distant do you suppose we are from that building?"

"About two miles."

"Upwards of nine miles, as the crow flies! Yes; that is the Taj, the tomb of a woman, the wife of the Emperor Shah Jehan. The pure white marble of which it is built was brought from Ajmere. For upwards of twenty-five years, twenty-five thousand men were employed, day by day, on that edifice. I am afraid to say how many millions it cost. The Mahrattas carried away the huge silver gates and made them into rupees. What became of the inner gate, which was formed of a single piece of agate, no one can say. The general opinion is, that it is buried somewhere in Bhurtpore. The original idea was, to build a corresponding tomb on this side of the river for the Emperor himself, and connect the two by a bridge of white marble. A very pretty idea, was it not? Lord William Bentinck was for pulling the Taj down and selling the marble, or using it for building purposes."

"Impossible!"

"Not at all. He thought it was very impolitic to allow these gorgeous edifices to stand – these monuments of folly, extravagance, and superstition, which served none but the worst of prejudices, leading the natives to draw prejudicial comparisons between the simple and economical structures of the British and these stupendous and costly erections of the Moghul Emperors. And most assuredly our bungalows, churches, and other buildings do present a most beggarly appearance alongside these masses of polished marble and red stone. It looks as though we had no confidence in our hold of the country, and therefore would not go to any expense worth speaking of. Look at our court-houses, in the civil lines, as that part of Agra is called – a parcel of paltry brick and mortar pigeon-holes, not to be compared with the tenements that the menial servants of the Emperors inhabited. Look at the Government House, the Metcalfe Testimonial, and other paltry European edifices.

"Surely," said I, "you would preserve rather than deface or destroy these magnificent works of art – these wonders of the world?"

"Works of art and wonders of the world they doubtless are; but, under existing circumstances, they are eye-sores, and I would pull down every one of them, and convert the material into useful buildings – barracks – splendid barracks for our British and native troops; hospitals, worthy of being called hospitals; court-houses, churches, magazines, and so forth."

"But what barbarians the natives would think us!"

"What does that signify? Are we the conquerors of the country, or are we not? As to what they would think of us, they can't think much worse of us than they do already. Do we not eat swine's flesh? and do not English ladies dance (the natives call it 'jumping about'), and with men who are not their husbands? Barbarians! Why, the very dress that we wear renders us barbarians in their sight."

The sun had now risen high in the heavens, and his rays fell upon the Taj, which we were gradually approaching. I was wrapped in admiration, and wishing in my inmost heart that my talkative companion would cease, and leave me to gaze in silence on that glorious scene, when suddenly the procession halted, and the Lieutenant shouted out the word "Hulloa!" in a voice so loud that I was completely startled.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"Matter!" the Lieutenant echoed me. "Matter! Look a-head! There is a wheel off one of those rickety carts, and those confounded boxes are scattered all over the road." Here the little officer bounded like an Indian-rubber ball from his seat, and in a towering passion with all the world in general, but no one in particular, rushed to the spot where the disaster had occurred, and there began to fret, fume, and snort most violently.

"Hush, Sahib!" said one of the Sepoys, saluting his officer very respectfully, "or you may wake the Soubahdar, and then what will happen?"

This appeal had the effect of restoring the Lieutenant to calmness and good-humour. He smiled, and seemed to feel that matters would certainly have been worse, and the delay more protracted, had the old man been alive and witnessed the accident.

One of the boxes was smashed to pieces, and the rupees were lying about in all directions, the Sepoys picking them up, and searching for others in the dust and sand. I never witnessed a more ridiculous or grotesque scene than this – the native soldiers in their red coats and chacos, but with bare legs and without shoes, kneeling, and sifting the earth through their fingers, the Lieutenant in his pyjamahs and solar hat, a cheroot in his mouth, and in his hand the buggy-whip, which he used as a baton while giving his orders.

"Does this often happen?" I was tempted to ask.

"Constantly," was the Lieutenant's reply. "The Government has a bullock-train for the conveyance of stores; and even private individuals, by paying for the carriage, may have their goods taken from station to station; but, in respect to treasure, we cling to the old system. The military authorities apply to the magistrates, whose subordinates provide these hackeries, which were in vogue some five thousand years ago. And just observe those rotten boxes."

"Why are they not lined with cast iron or zinc?"

"It would be too expensive. The Government cannot afford it."

"But why should not the Government use its own bullock-train for the conveyance of treasure, instead of hiring these antiquated and rotten conveyances?"

"Because the bullock-train is under the post-office authorities; and the military authorities have nothing to do with the post-office authorities."

"Is that a reason?"

"No – nor is it rhyme; but it is a part of our Indian system, and, what is more, it is Government logic. However, I am not going to stop here all day. We will push on, and get into Agra before breakfast. The treasure will come all right enough, and I will be there to meet it at the office of the magistrate and collector."

We now took our seats in the old buggy. The hood was raised, the syce sat behind, and off we went at a canter, which very soon became a gallop. In the parlance of the Lieutenant, the old horse was indeed "a ripper." When warm there was no holding him, and he went over his seven and a half miles of ground in thirty-seven minutes. At the bridge of boats which crosses the Jumna, we met, by chance, the assistant magistrate (the friend with whom I was going to stay, and the husband of the Lieutenant's first cousin). He was dressed in a pair of large jack-boots, corduroy breeches, a shooting-coat, and a solar helmet, and was riding an immensely powerful Cape horse. He did not recognise either of us at first, but pulled up, and turned round the moment the Lieutenant shouted out his name, with the addition of "Old boy!" – household words in the mouth of the Lieutenant, for he not only applied them to things animate, but inanimate; for instance, his corkscrew, his teapot, his buggy, his watch, his hat, everything with him was an old boy, in common with the Lieutenant-Governor, or the general commanding the division.

After I had been greeted by my friend, who had been at a loss to account for my delay in reaching Agra – the Lieutenant thus addressed him:

"I say, old boy. Look here. I have a lot of treasure for you about seven or eight miles from this; but there has been a break down. Send out a lot of fellows to give assistance, will you?"

"Yes."

"And look here, old boy. There's a dead Soubahdar."

"A what?"

"A dead Soubahdar. He died suddenly, and I don't wish him to be buried without an examination, because I bullied him mildly only a short time previous to his going out. You will manage that for me, old boy, won't you?"

"Oh, yes."

"He died of old age, and his last grievance; but still I should like a medical man's certificate; just to satisfy the colonel who served with him in Lord Lake's time, you know, and all that sort of thing."

"I can manage all that for you," replied the official, riding by the side of the buggy; "but push on, for the sun is becoming rather oppressive, and I have no hood to my saddle, remember."

My host and hostess made me as comfortable and as happy as any traveller could wish to be made. Of the former I saw little or nothing from eleven in the morning till three or four in the evening, for he was what is called a conscientious officer, and attended strictly to his work. During these hours I used to read, or pay a visit to the mess-rooms of a regiment where a billiard-table was kept. To the officers of the regiment I was introduced by Lieutenant Sixtie, previous to his return to his own corps. He stayed eight days in Agra – upon some plea or other – and sent his company on, in advance of him.

Agra – that is to say, the society of Agra – was at the time split into two sections, the civil and the military. They were not exactly at open war, but there was a coolness existing between the two branches. They did not invite each other, and very seldom exchanged calls. For me, who was desirous of seeing all parties, this was rather awkward, living as I was in the house of a civilian. So I resolved upon taking a small bungalow for a short period, and furnishing it in a mild and inexpensive manner. I was candid enough to confess to my host that, as I was in no way connected with either branch of the service, I was anxious to avoid taking any part in their local differences; and he had the good sense not to press me to remain under his roof.

A few days after I had located myself in my bungalow, I received a call from a native gentleman, a Seik chieftain, who was, and now is, a state prisoner on a handsome stipend. He drove up to my door in a small phaeton, drawn by a pair of large black mules of incredible swiftness and agility. This fallen chieftain – a tall and powerfully-built man – was no other than the renowned Rajah Lall Singh, who commanded the Seik cavalry at the battle of Ferozeshah, and who was subsequently Prime Minister at Lahore, during a portion of the time that the British Government undertook the administration of the Punjab on behalf of Maharajah Dulleep Singh. Lall Singh was now studying surgery. More than one medical officer in charge of the hospitals which he attended, informed me that the Rajah was already a comparatively skilful operator, and could take off an arm or a leg with surprising dexterity. Notwithstanding his previous character – that of a sensualist and faithless intriguer; one, indeed, who had not been constant even to his own villanies – I could not help liking his conversation, which was humorously enlivened with imitations of English officers with whom he had come in contact, and was entertaining to the last degree. His anecdotes, relating to the late Runjeet Singh, were peculiarly interesting; coming as they did from the lips of a man who had been so much in the company of that remarkable monarch, who in many respects resembled Napoleon the First, especially in the selection of the instruments of his power. "All his" (Runjeet's) "chief men," said the Rajah, "were persons of obscure origin: Tej Singh, Sawan Mull, Deenanauth, and the rest of them."