Forty-one years in India | Page 7

however, much inclined
to complain, as some of our new associates proved themselves decided
acquisitions. Amongst them was Mr. (afterwards Sir Barnes) Peacock,
an immense favourite with all on board, and more particularly with us
lads. He was full of fun, and although then forty-seven years old, and
on his way to Calcutta to join the Governor-General's Council, he took
part in our amusements as if he were of the same age as ourselves. His
career in India was brilliant, and on the expiration of his term of office
as member of Council he was made Chief Justice of Bengal. Another of
the passengers was Colonel (afterwards Sir John Bloomfield) Gough,
who died not long ago in Ireland, and was then on his way to take up
his appointment as Quartermaster-General of Queen's troops. He had
served in the 3rd Light Dragoons and on the staff of his cousin, Lord
Gough, during the Sutlej and Punjab campaigns, and was naturally an
object of the deepest veneration to all the youngsters on board.
At Madras we stopped to land passengers, and I took this opportunity
of going on shore to see some old Addiscombe friends, most of whom
were greatly excited at the prospect of a war in Burma. The transports
were then actually lying in the Madras roads, and a few days later this
portion of the expedition started for Rangoon.
At last, on the 1st April, we reached Calcutta, and I had to say
good-bye to the friends I had made during the six weeks' voyage, most

of whom I was never to meet again.
On landing, I received a letter from my father, who commanded the
Lahore division, informing me that the proprietor of Spence's Hotel had
been instructed to receive me, and that I had better put up there until I
reported myself at the Head-Quarters of the Bengal Artillery at
Dum-Dum. This was chilling news, for I was the only one of our party
who had to go to a hotel on landing. The Infantry cadets had either been
taken charge of by the Town Major, who provided them with quarters
in Fort William, or had gone to stay with friends, and the only other
Artilleryman (Stewart) went direct to Dum-Dum, where he had a
brother, also a gunner, who, poor follow, was murdered with his young
wife five years later by the mutineers at Gwalior. I was still more
depressed later on by finding myself at dinner _tête-à-tête_ with a
first-class specimen of the results of an Indian climate. He belonged to
my own regiment, and was going home on medical certificate, but did
not look as if he could ever reach England. He gave me the not too
pleasing news that by staying in that dreary hotel, instead of proceeding
direct to Dum-Dum, I had lost a day's service and pay, so I took care to
join early the following morning.
A few years before, Dum-Dum had been a large military station, but
the annexation of the Punjab, and the necessity for maintaining a
considerable force in northern India, had greatly reduced the garrison.
Even the small force that remained had embarked for Burma before my
arrival, so that, instead of a large, cheery mess party, to which I had
been looking forward, I sat down to dinner with only one other
subaltern.
No time was lost in appointing me to a Native Field Battery, and I was
put through the usual laboratory course as a commencement to my
duties. The life was dull in the extreme, the only variety being an
occasional week in Fort William, where my sole duty was to
superintend the firing of salutes. Nor was there much in my
surroundings to compensate for the prosaic nature of my work. Fort
William was not then what it has since become--one of the healthiest
stations in India. Quite the contrary. The men were crowded into small

badly-ventilated buildings, and the sanitary arrangements were as
deplorable as the state of the water supply. The only efficient
scavengers were the huge birds of prey called adjutants, and so great
was the dependence placed upon the exertions of these unclean
creatures, that the young cadets were warned that any injury done to
them would be treated as gross misconduct. The inevitable result of this
state of affairs was endemic sickness, and a death-rate of over ten per
cent. per annum.[1]
Calcutta outside the Fort was but a dreary place to fall back upon. It
was wretchedly lighted by smoky oil-lamps set at very rare intervals.
The slow and cumbrous palankin was the ordinary means of
conveyance, and, as far as I was concerned, the vaunted hospitality of
the Anglo-Indian was conspicuous by its absence.
I must confess I was disappointed at being left so completely to