I left England with my wife on November 13th, 1873,
and after an uneventful voyage, reached Bombay, December 9th. We
proceeded at once to Calcutta, where some of my old servants joined me,
including two bearers, Seewa and Keptie, wild Bhooyas from the Cuttack
Tributary Mehals, whom I had trained, and who had been with me for
years in all my wanderings, in that wild territory. Thanks to the
kindness of my friends the Bernards (now Sir C. and Lady Bernard), we
spent only a day at an hotel, and remained under their hospitable roof
till we left Calcutta.

My old appointment in Keonjhur had been abolished, and I had to wait
till another was open to me. I had several interviews on the subject
with the Lieutenant-Governor of Bengal, Sir G. Campbell. [2]Finally it
was decided that I should go to Assam (then about to be made into a
Chief Commissionership) and act as Political Agent of the Naga Hills,
while the permanent official—Captain Butler—was away in the
Interior, and subsequently on leave. I knew a large part of the
district well, as one of the most malarious in India, and when asked if
I would take the appointment, said, “Yes, I have no objection,
but just hint to the Lieutenant-Governor that unless he wants to kill
me off, it may be better policy to send me elsewhere, as the Medical
Board in London said, I must not go to a malarious district, after the
experience I have had of it in Keonjhur.” The Secretary conveyed
my hint, and when I next saw him, said, “The Lieutenant-Governor
says, that is all stuff and nonsense.” Later on Sir G. Campbell
asked if my wife would go with me. I quietly replied that she would go
anywhere with me.

Finally, on December 30th, we left Calcutta, and after a night in
the train, embarked in one of the I. G. S. N. Co.’s steamers at
Goalundo, for Nigriting on the Burrhampooter, where we had to land for
the Naga Hills. The steamers of those days, were not like the
well-appointed mail boats now in use. The voyage was long, the steamers
uncomfortable, and the company on board anything but desirable. All the
same, the days passed pleasantly, while we slowly wended our way up the
mighty river, amid lovely and interesting scenery all new to my wife,
to whom I pointed out the different historic spots as they came in
view.

We halted at Gowhatty for the night, and early in the morning I swam
across the river for the [3]second time in my life, a distance of about
three miles, as the current carried me in a slanting direction.

At last we reached Nigriting, and were landed on a dry sandbank five
or six miles from the celebrated tea gardens of that name, and the
nearest habitations. Fortunately, I had brought a tent and all things
needful for a march; and my servants, well accustomed to camp life,
soon pitched it and made us comfortable, and my wife was charmed with
her first experience. We had a message of welcome from Mr. Boyle, of
Nigriting Factory, and the next day went to his house in canoes, whence
we set out for Golaghat.

It was to Nigriting that I was carried for change of air nearly
twelve years before, when, in April, 1862, I was desperately wounded in
an encounter with a large panther near Golaghat, where I had been
stationed. I then lived for a week or so in a grass hut on a high bank,
and the fresh air made my obstinate wounds begin to heal. Thus it
happened that all the people knew me well, and I was long remembered by
the name of “Baghé Khooah” literally the
“tiger eaten,” a name which I found was still familiar to
every one. Loading our things on elephants, and having a pony for my
wife, and a dandy (hill litter) in case she grew tired, we set off for
Golaghat, and had a picnic luncheon on the way. How delightful are our
first experiences of marching in India, even when we have, as in this
case, to put up with some discomfort; the cool, crisp air in the
morning; the good appetite that a ten-mile walk or ride gives; the
feeling that breakfast has been [4]earned, and finally breakfast
itself; and such a good one. Where indeed but in India could we have a
first-rate meal of three or four courses, and every dish hot, with no
better appliances in the shape of a fireplace, than two or three clods
of earth? Often have I had a dinner fit for a king, when heavy rain had
been falling for hours, and there was no shelter for my men, but a tree
with a sheet thrown over a branch.

We breakfasted at a place called “Char Alleé” and
the march being long (nearly twenty miles), the sun was low long before
reaching Golaghat. As we passed some road coolies, I began a
conversation with the old Tekla (overseer) in charge, and asked him if
he could get me a few oranges. He said, “Oh no, they are all
over.” He then asked me how I came to speak Assamese so well. I
said, “I have been in Assam before.” He said, “Oh
yes, there have been many sahibs in my time,” and he named
several; “and then long ago there was a ‘Baghé
Khooah’ sahib, I wonder where he is now?” I looked at him
and said, “Ami Baghé Khooah” (I am the Baghé
Khooah). The old man gazed equally hard at me for a moment and then ran
in front of me and made a most profound obeisance. Having done this, he
smilingly said, “I think I can find you some oranges after
all,” and at once ran off, and brought me some for which he
refused to take anything. The good old man walked about a mile farther
before he wished me good-bye; and my wife and I went on, greatly
pleased to find that I was so well remembered.

We did not get to Golaghat till long after dark, [5]and pitched
our tent on the site of the lines of my old detachment, which I had
commanded twelve years before. What a change! Trees that I had
remembered as small, had grown large, and some that were planted since
I left, already a fair size.

In the morning we received a perfect ovation. People who had known
me before, crowded to see me and pay their respects, many of them
bringing their children born since I had left. All this was pleasant
enough and greatly delighted my wife, but we had to proceed on our way,
and it is always difficult to get one’s followers to move from a
civilised place, where there is a bazaar, into the jungle, and
henceforth our road lay through jungle, the Nambor forest beginning
about five miles from Golaghat. At last coolies to carry my wife
arrived, and I sent her on in her “dandy” with her ayah,
charging the bearers to wait for me at a village I well knew, called
“Sipahee Hoikeeah.” The men replied, “Hoi
Deota” (Yes, deity1) and started. The elephants were a
great difficulty, and it was some hours before I could get off, and
even then some had not arrived. However, off I started, and hurried on
to “Sipahee Hoikeeah” so as not to keep my wife waiting,
but when I reached the spot, I found to my amazement that the village
had ceased to exist, having, as I subsequently learned, been abandoned
for fear of the Nagas. I hurried on in much anxiety, as my wife did not
speak Hindoostani, and neither ayah nor bearers spoke English. At
[6]last I caught them up at the Nambor hot springs,
called by natives the “Noonpoong” where we were to
halt.

Camping Out.

[Page 6.

The Noonpoong is situated in a lovely spot amidst fine forest. The
hot water springs out of the ground, at a temperature of 112 degrees
and fills a small pool. It is similar in taste to the waters of
Aix-la-Chapelle, and is highly efficacious in skin diseases, being
resorted to even for the cure of severe leech bites, which are easily
obtained from the land leech infesting all the forests of Assam.
Fortunately some of our cooking things, with chairs and a table
arrived, also a mattress, but no bed and no tent. We waited till 9
P.M., and finding that no more elephants came
up, I made up a bed for my wife on the ground under a table, to shelter
her from the dew, but while sitting by the camp fire for a last warm,
we heard the noise of an elephant, and saw one emerging from the
forest. Fortunately he carried the tent which was quickly pitched, and
we passed a comfortable night.

The hot springs are not the only attraction of the neighbourhood, as
about two miles off in the forest, there is a very pretty waterfall,
not high, but the volume of water is considerable, and it comes down
with a thundering sound heard for some distance. The natives call it
the “phutta hil,” literally “rent rock.” The
Nambor forest is noted for its Nahor or Nagessur trees (Mesua
Ferma) a handsome tree, the heart of which is a fine red wood, very
hard and very heavy, and quite impervious to the attacks of white ants.
Europeans call it the iron wood of Assam. It is very plentiful in parts
of the forest [7]between the Noonpoong and Golaghat, and also grows
in the lowlands of Manipur.

The next morning we set out for Borpathar, a village with a fine
sheet of cultivation on the banks of the Dunseree, and took up our
quarters in the old blockhouse, which had been converted into a
comfortable rest house. Here again we received a perfect ovation, the
people, headed by my old friend Hova Ram, now promoted to a Mouzadar,
coming in a body, with fruit and eggs, etc., to pay their respects. The
population had sadly diminished since my early days, the people having
in many cases fled the country for fear of Naga raids.

The march having been a short one, all our baggage had time to come
up. In the evening the girls of the village entertained us with one of
their national dances, a very pretty and interesting sight. After a
good night’s rest we again started, our march lying through the
noble forest, where buttressed trees formed an arch over the road,
showing plainly that Gothic architecture was an adaptation from nature.
I had never marched along the road since it was cleared; but I was
there in 1862, in pursuit of some Naga raiders, when it would have been
impassable, but for elephant and rhinoceros tracks. Even then I was
struck by its great beauty, and now it was a fairly good cold weather
track.

We halted at Deo Panee, then at Hurreo Jan, and Nowkatta, and on the
fourth day reached Dimapur, where we found a comfortable rest house, on
the banks of a fine tank about two hundred yards square. This, with
many others near it, spoke of days of civilisation that had long since
passed away, before [8]the Naga drove the Cacharee from the hills he
now inhabits, and from the rich valley of the Dunseree. Near Dimapur we
passed a Meekir hut built on posts ten or twelve feet high, and with a
notched log resting against it, at an angle of about seventy degrees by
way of a staircase, up which a dog ran like a squirrel at our approach.
The Meekirs occupy some low hill ranges between the Naga hills and the
Burrhampooter.

The country round Dimapur is exceedingly rich, and everywhere bears
the marks of having been thickly populated. It is well supplied with
artificial square tanks, some much larger than the one already referred
to, and on the opposite bank of the river we crossed to reach our
halting place, are the remains of an old fortified city. Mounds
containing broken pottery made with the wheel, abound, though the
neighbouring tribes have forgotten its use. At Dimapur, in those days,
there were three or four Government elephants and a few shops kept by
“Khyahs,” an enterprising race of merchants from Western
India.

The ruined city is worth describing. It was surrounded originally by
solid brick walls twelve feet in height and six in thickness, the
bricks admirably made and burned. The walls enclosed a space seven
hundred yards square; it was entered by a Gothic archway, and not far
off had a gap in the wall, said to have been made for cattle to enter
by. Inside were tanks, some lined with brick walls, and with brick
steps leading to the water. Though I carefully explored the interior, I
never saw any other traces of brickwork, except perhaps a platform;
[9]but I found one or two sacrificial stones, for
offerings of flowers, water and oil. One corner of the surrounding wall
had been cut away by the river. The enclosure is covered with forest.
Near the gateway are some huge monoliths, one eighteen feet in height.
All are covered with sculpture, and some have deep grooves cut in the
top, as if to receive beams. It is difficult to conjecture what they
were brought there for, and how they were transported, as the nearest
rocks from which they could have been cut, are at least ten miles away.
If the Assam-Bengal Railway passes near Dimapur as is, I believe,
arranged, this interesting old city wall will probably be used as a
quarry for railway purposes, and soon none of it will remain. Alas, for
Vandalism!

History tells us little about the origin of Dimapur, but probably it
was once a centre of Cacharee civilisation, and as the Angami Nagas
advanced, the city wall was built, so as to afford a place of refuge
against sudden raids. It is a strange sight to see the relics of a
forgotten civilisation, in the midst of a pathless forest.

On our march up, we frequently came upon the windings of the river
Dunseree. At Nowkatta it runs parallel for a time with the road, and we
took our evening walk on its dry sandbanks, finding many recent traces
of tigers and wild elephants. From that time till we finally left the
hills, the roar of tigers and the trumpeting of elephants were such
common sounds, that we ceased to pay attention to them, and my wife,
though naturally timid, became devoted to the wild solitude of our
life. [10]

At Dimapur we enjoyed the luxury of fresh milk, which, of course,
the forest did not supply. The night was delightfully cold, and the
next morning crisp and invigorating, and we set off at an early hour,
for our last march into Samagudting.

For the first eight miles our road was through a level forest
country, with the exception of a piece of low-lying grass land, and at
a place called Nichu Guard the ascent of the hill commenced. This
entrance of the gorge through which the Diphoo Panee river enters the
low lands is very beautiful, the stream rushing out from the hills over
a pebbly bottom, and it was a favourite encamping ground for us in our
later marches. Now, we had not time to halt, so hurried on. The road up
the hill was in fair condition for men and elephants, but did not admit
of wheeled traffic, had there been any carts to use. We accomplished
the ascent, a distance of four miles, in about two hours, obtaining
several lovely views of the boundless forest, on our way.

The vegetation on the hill itself had been much injured by the
abominable practice hillmen have, of clearing a fresh space every two
or three years, and deserting it for another, when the soil has been
exhausted. This never gives it time to recover. At last we reached the
summit, and took possession of the Political Agent’s house, a
large bungalow, built of grass and bamboo, the roof being supported by
wooden posts, on the highest point of the hill. A glance showed me that
the posts were nearly eaten through by white ants, and that the first
high wind would level it with the ground. It had been built
[11]by a man who never intended to stay, and who only
wanted it to last his time.

Later in the day, I took over the charge from Mr. Coombs, who was
acting till my arrival, and thus became, for the time, chief of the
district. My staff consisted of Mr. Needham, Assistant Political Agent,
and Mr. Cooper, in medical charge, the usual office establishment, and
one hundred and fifty military police. Most of these, together with
Captain Butler, for whom I was acting, were away in the Interior with a
survey party. Mr. Coombs left in a day or two, and I then occupied his
bungalow lower down the hill, and in a more exposed position, so as to
allow of the larger house being rebuilt. Besides the Government
establishment, we had a fair-sized Naga village on the hill, and just
below the Political Agent’s house. These people had long been
friendly to us, and were willing, for a large recompense, to do all
sorts of odd jobs, being entirely free from the caste prejudices of our
Hindoo and degenerate Mussulman fellow-subjects. [12]

My first impressions of Samagudting, were anything but
favourable. It was eminently a “make-shift place.” It had
been occupied by us as a small outpost, from time to time, between 1846
and 1851, but it was never fit for a permanent post of more than
twenty-five men, as the water supply was bad, there being no springs,
and only a few water holes which were entirely dependent on the
uncertain rainfall. A small tank had been constructed, but it was 500
feet below the summit, so that water was sold at an almost prohibitive
rate. All articles of food were scarce, dear and bad, wood was
enormously dear, and to crown all, the place was unhealthy and
constantly enveloped in fog.

Samagudting1 ought never to have been occupied, and would
not have been, had the Government taken ordinary precautions to verify
the too roseate reports of an officer who wished to see it adopted as
the headquarters of a new district, as a speedy road [13]to
promotion, and subsequent transfer to a more favoured appointment. The
report in question which, among other things, mentioned the existence
of springs of water, that existed only in imagination, having once been
accepted by the authorities, and a large expenditure incurred, it
became a very invidious task for future Political Agents to unmask the
affair, and proclaim the extreme unsuitability of Samagudting for a
station.

Many other good and healthy sites were available, and I believe that
our dealings with the Nagas were greatly retarded, by the adoption of
such an unsuitable post. As it was, having made our road over the hill,
it was necessary to climb an ascent of over two thousand feet, and an
equal descent, before entering the really important portion of the
Angami Naga country. I at once saw that the right entrance lay by the
Diphoo Panee Gorge, and I recommended its adoption. I began to make
this road during the Naga Hills Campaign of 1879–80, and it has
since been regularly used.

Having said all that there was to say against Samagudting, it is
only fair to mention its good points. First, though never so cold in
the winter, as the plains, the temperature was never so high in the hot
and rainy seasons; and when the weather was fine, it was very
enjoyable. The views from the hill were magnificent. To the south, the
Burrail range, from which a broad and undulating valley divided us. To
the west, a long stretch of hills and forests. To the east, the valley
of the Dunseree, bordered by the Rengma and Lotah Naga hills, a vast
forest, stretching as far as the eye could reach, [14]with
here and there a large patch of high grass land, one of which many
miles in extent, was the Rengma Putha, a grand elephant catching ground
in old times, where many a noble elephant became a victim to the
untiring energy of the Bengali elephant phandaits or noosers, from the
Morung.2 To the north, the view extended over a pathless
forest, the first break being the Doboka Hills. Behind these, a long
bank of mist showed the line of the Burrhampooter, while on clear days
in the cold weather, we might see the dark line of the Bhootan Hills,
with the snowy peaks of the Himalayas towering above them.3
Altogether, it was a sight once seen, never to be forgotten.

Samagudting.

[Page 14.

There was a footpath all round the hill, which, after a little
alteration of level here and there, and a little repairing, where
landslips had made it unsafe, was delightful for a morning or evening
walk or ride. As my wife was fond of botany, she found a subject of
never-ending interest in the many wild flowers, ferns, and climbing
plants, and soon grew accustomed to riding along the edge of a dizzy
precipice.

Our private establishment consisted of ten or twelve servants in
all, including a girl of the Kuki tribe, named Bykoout, who assisted
the ayah; a very small establishment for India. Servants in Assam are
bad and difficult to keep. Most of mine were imported, but, with the
exception of my two faithful Bhooyas, Seewa and Keptie, and a
syce (groom), by name [15]Peewa, they were all soon corrupted,
though some had been with me for years. Seewa once said to me,
“The influence here is so bad, that we too shall be corrupted if
we stay long.” Seewa was quite a character. One day I got a
letter from one of his relations, asking me to tell him that his wife
was dead. I remembered her well; it was a love match, and she had run
away with him. I feared it would be such a blow, that I felt quite
nervous about telling him, and put it off till the evening, when, with
a faltering voice, I broke the news as gently as I could. Instead of
the outburst of grief I had looked for, he quietly asked, “What
did she die of?” I said, “Fever.” He replied,
“Oh, yes, I thought it must be that. Will you write and see that
all her property is made over to my brother, otherwise some of her
people may steal it?”

The state of things at Samagudting was very discouraging. I resented
seeing the Government and the establishment being charged famine prices
for everything, by the Nagas and Khyahs; also the general squalor which
prevailed, and which I felt need not exist. It was the inheritance of
the hand-to-mouth system in which everything had been commenced in
early days. However, my wife set me an example of cheerfulness, and I
made up my mind to remedy all the evils I could. First, the supply
system was attacked, and I made arrangements with some old Khyah
friends at Golaghat, to send up large supplies of rice and other kinds
of food, and as the season advanced, I encouraged such of the military
police as could be spared to take up land at Dimapur, and cultivate.
For ourselves, I bought [16]two cows at Borpathar, and
established them at Nichu Guard, whence my gardener brought up the milk
every day. In a short time we were more comfortable than could have
been expected, and there was the additional satisfaction of seeing that
the arrangements for cheaper food for the establishment proved
successful. Water was the standing difficulty; we had to depend upon
the caprice of the Naga water-carriers, and frequently my wife’s
bath, filled ready for the next morning, had to be emptied in the
evening to provide water for cooking our evening meal! Sometimes I got
clean water for drinking from the Diphoo Panee, otherwise what we had
was as if it had been taken from a dirty puddle. The want of water
prevented our having a garden near our house; we had a few hardy
flowers, including the shoe-flower—a kind of
hibiscus—roses, and passion-flower. Such vegetable-garden as we
had was at Nichu Guard, where the soil was good, and water
plentiful.

Our house was watertight, and that was the best that could be said
for it. It was thatched, with walls of split bamboos and strengthened
by wooden posts; there were no glass windows, and the doors and
shutters were of split bamboo tied together; the mud floor was also
covered with thin split bamboos, and had to be swept constantly, as the
dust worked through. We had one sitting-room, a bed-room, bath-room,
pantry, and store-room, the latter full of rats. Snakes occasionally
visited us, and a day or two after we had settled in, a cat rushed in
while we were at breakfast, jumped on my knee and took away the meat
from my plate, and bit and scratched [17]me when I tried to catch
her. My dressing-room was the shade of a tree outside, where I bathed
Anglo-Indian camp fashion, substituting a large hollow bamboo for the
usual mussuk, or skin of water.

We arrived at Samagudting on January 23rd, 1874, and by the
beginning of February felt quite old residents; hill-walking no longer
tired me, and we had made acquaintance with all the Nagas of the
village, and of many others, and were on quite friendly terms with
“Jatsolé,” the chief of Samagudting, a shrewd
far-seeing man, with great force of character.

I have mentioned the Burrail range, and the valley separating us.
Besides Samagudting there were two other villages on our side,
Sitekima, on the opposite bank of the Diphoo Panee Gorge, and
Tesephima, on outlying spurs of Samagudting. I say Samagudting, as it
has become the common appellation, but correctly speaking it should be
Chumookodima.

On the side of the Burrail facing us, were villages belonging to a
tribe we call Kutcha Nagas, a race inferior in fighting power to the
Angamis, but not unlike them in appearance, though of inferior
physique. These villages were formerly inhabited by Cacharees.4

On February 4th, I had a letter from Captain Butler, saying that he
would be at Kohima in a day or two, and asking me to meet him there. He
said that three of the police would be a sufficient escort. I
accordingly took three men, and started on the [18]6th,
marching to Piphima twenty-one miles, and the next morning another
twenty-one into Kohima, two very hard marches. I was glad to renew my
acquaintance with Butler, whom I had known when he first landed in
India in 1861, and I was in Fort William, studying for my Hindoostani
examination. He was a fine manly fellow, admirably fitted to conduct an
expedition, where pluck and perseverance were required. Here, I also
met Dr. Brown, Political Agent of Manipur, and Captain (now Colonel)
Badgley and Lieutenant (now Colonel C.B.) Woodthorpe, R.E., of the
survey, also Lieutenant (now Major V.C.) Ridgeway, 44th N.I., I spent a pleasant evening, discussing
various subjects with Captain Butler, and early on the 8th started on
my return journey.

Captain Butler had done the whole forty-two miles into Samagudting
in one day, and I determined to attempt it, and succeeded, though the
last 2000 feet of ascent to my house was rather hard, tired as I was.
My wife did not expect me, but I had arranged to fire three shots from
my rifle as a signal, if I arrived at any time by night; this I did
about 500 feet below my house, and I at once saw lanterns appear far
above me, and in a quarter of an hour, or twenty minutes, I was at my
door. The sound of firing at 9 P.M. created quite a sensation among the
weak-nerved ones on the hill, but it was good practice for the sentries
to be kept on the alert. Ever after, three shots from a rifle or a
revolver, were always my signal when I neared home, and often in after
years were they heard in the dead of night, when I was thought to be
miles away. My wife used to [19]say that it kept the people in good
order, never knowing when to expect me. I think it did.

Life was never monotonous. I took long walks, after our morning walk
round the hill, to inspect roads and bridges—a very important
work. Then I attended Cutcherry (the court of justice) and heard cases,
often with a loaded revolver in my hand, in case of any wild savage
attempting to dispute my authority; then I finished off revenue work,
of which there was little, and went home, had a cup of tea, visited
hospitals and gaol, if I had not already done so; and afterwards went
for an evening walk with my wife, round the hill or through the
village.

Sometimes duty took me to the plains, and we had a most delightful
march to the Nambor hot springs, when I arranged to have a rest house
built at Nowkatta, between Dimapur and Hurreo Jan. We reached the last
place, just after a dreadful catastrophe had occurred. The rest house
was raised on posts, six feet above the ground. One night when the man
carrying the dak (post) had arrived from Borpathar, he hung up the
letter bag under the house on a peg, and having had his evening
meal, retired to rest in the house with one or two other travellers.
Suddenly a huge tiger rushed up the steps, sprang through the open
door, and seizing one of the sleepers, bounded off into the forest with
him. One of my police who was there snatched up his rifle, pursued the
tiger and fired, making him drop the man, but life was extinct, and
when we arrived, there was a huge bloodstain on the floor, at least a
yard long. Strange to say, the letter bag was on one occasion carried
off by a tiger, but afterwards [20]recovered, uninjured save by
tooth marks. The policeman was promoted for his gallantry.

The day after leaving Hurreo Jan, we met a party of Rengma Nagas
coming to see me, with some little presents. They were the men who
helped to kill the panther, that wounded me in 1862,5 and they
brought with them the son of one of their number, who was killed by the
infuriated beast, a fine lad of fifteen; needless to say, that I
rewarded these friendly people, whom I had not seen for twelve years.
We halted a day or two at the springs, as I had to visit Golaghat on
business, and unfortunately missed seeing a herd of wild elephants
caught, a sight I had wished my wife to see. She did see the stockade,
but the elephants had been already taken out. I hope farther on to
describe an elephant drive.

I do not know a more agreeable place to halt at than the hot springs
in former days. In cold weather before the mosquitoes had arrived it
was perfect rest. A little opening in the tall dark forest, in the
centre some scrub jungle, including fragrant wild lemons and citrons,
with the pool in the midst; a babbling stream flowed all round the
opening, on the other side of which was a high bank. The [21]bathing
was delightful, and could be made quite private for ladies, by means of
a cloth enclosure, well known to the Assamese by the name of
”Âr Kapôr.” Then the occasional weird cry of
the hoolook ape, and the gambols of numerous
monkeys in the tall trees on the high bank, gave plenty of interest to
the scene, had the general aspect of the place failed in its
attractions.

Soon after our return to headquarters, the survey party arrived from
the interior of the hills, and after a few days’ rest, departed
for their summer quarters. Captain Butler then started for England, and
Mr. Needham came in to Samagudting.

Thus left in charge for a considerable period, I felt justified in
doing more than I should have done, had my stay only been of a
temporary nature, and I went most thoroughly into all questions
connected with the hills and their administration. My long experience
in charge of a native state full of wild hill tribes, and my personal
knowledge of many of the Naga and other wild tribes of Assam (a
knowledge that went back as far as 1860), were a great help to me, as I
was consequently not new to the work. The eastern frontier had always
been to my mind the most interesting field of work in India, and now it
was for me to learn all I could. [22]

Shortly after my arrival at Samagudting, I received a
cheering letter, just when I most needed it, from my old friend Wynne,
then Acting Foreign Secretary, saying, “Don’t be too
disappointed at not receiving a better appointment than the Naga Hills.
You will have plenty of good work to do, and you will increase your
already very extensive knowledge of wild tribes.” It was the last
letter I ever received from him, as cholera quickly carried him off,
and I lost in him one of the kindest friends I ever had, one who had
constantly interested himself in my work, and given me advice. Such a
friend would have been invaluable now. Our position in the Naga
Hills was
an anxious one, and can only be properly realised by knowing the course
of previous events.

Our first acquaintance with the Nagas practically began in 1832,
when Captain Jenkins and Lieutenant Pemberton escorted by Rajah
Ghumbeer Singh’s Manipur troops, forced a passage through the
hills with a view to ascertaining if there were a practicable route
into Assam. They came viâ Paptongmai and Samagudting to
Mohong Deejood. There is every [23]reason to believe that the
Manipuris in former days did penetrate into the Naga Hills, and exacted
tribute when they felt strong enough to do so. All the villages have
Manipur names in addition to their own. But during the period of her
decadence, just before and during the Burmese War of 1819–25, any
influence Manipur may have possessed fell into abeyance. At that time
it was re-asserted, and Ghumbeer Singh reduced several villages to
submission, including the largest of all, Kohima, at which place he
stood upon a stone and had his footprints sculptured on it, in token of
conquest. This was set up in a prominent position, together with an
upright stone bearing carved figures and an inscription.

The Nagas greatly respected this stone and cleaned it from time to
time. They opened a large trade with Manipur, and whenever a Manipuri
visited a Naga village he was treated as an honoured guest, at a time
when a British subject could not venture into the interior without risk
of being murdered.

Kohima Stone.

[Page 23.

Even up to the Naga Hills campaign of 1879–80, the Nagas
regarded Manipur as the greater power of the two, because her conduct
was consistent; if she threatened, she acted. One British subject after
another might be murdered with impunity, but woe betide the village
that murdered a subject of Manipur. A force of Manipuris was instantly
despatched, the village was attacked, destroyed, and ample compensation
exacted. The system answered well for Manipur; many of the Nagas began
to speak Manipuri, and several villages paid an annual tribute. Still,
up to 1851, we considered that we [24]had some shadowy claim to the
hills, though we never openly asserted it.

I may as well give a short account of the different tribes
inhabiting the Naga Hills district when I took charge. The oldest
were—

[Contents]

Angami Nagas.

A strong built, hardy, active race, the men averaging
5 feet 8 inches to 6 feet in height, and the women tall in proportion.
In colour they vary from a rich brown to a yellowish or light brown.
They have a manly independent bearing, and are bred up to war from
their earliest years. While the Kukis [28]are monarchists, the
Nagas are republicans, and their Peumahs, or chiefs, are elected, and
though they often have great influence, they are in theory, only
primus inter pares, and are liable at any time to be displaced.
Practically they often remain in office for years, and are greatly
respected.

Where the Angamis came from must be uncertain till the languages of
our Eastern frontier are scientifically analysed. The late Mr. Damant,
a man of great talent and powers of research, had a valuable paper
regarding them in hand, but it perished in the insurrection of 1879.
The probability is, that they came originally from the south-eastern
corner of Thibet.

Some of the Maories of New Zealand reminded me of the Angamis. The
well-defined nose is a prominent characteristic of the last, as it is
of some of the inhabitants of Polynesia. The people of
Samagudting—that is, the adults in 1874—told me that they
had come from the north-east, and were the seventh generation that had
been there. When they first occupied their village, the site was, they
said, covered with the bones and tusks of elephants which had come
there to die.

Had I lived longer among the Nagas, I should have liked to have made
deeper researches into their language and past history; as it was, all
my time was taken up with my active duties, and I had not a moment to
spare.

Their dress is a short kilt of black cotton cloth, ornamented, in
the case of warriors, with rows of cowrie shells. They have handsome
cloths of dark blue and yellow thrown over their shoulders in cold
[29]weather. Their arms are spears and heavy short
swords, called by the Assamese name of dao; helmets and shields
of wicker work (used chiefly to cover the more vulnerable parts of the
body) and sometimes clothed with skins of tigers or bears. They have
also tails of wood decorated with goats’ hair dyed red. The
warspears are plain; the ornamental ones are covered with goats’
hair dyed red, and are sometimes used in battle. Their drill is of a
most complicated style, and requires much practice. An Angami in full
war paint is a very formidable-looking individual. They are divided
into many clans. Several clans often inhabit one village, and it
frequently happened that two clans thus situated were at deadly feud
with each other.

Blood feuds were common among all the hill-tribes, but the
system was carried to excess among the Angamis. Life for life was the
rule, and until each of the opposing parties had lost an equal number,
peace was impossible, and whenever members of one village met any
belonging to the other, hostilities were sure to result. Sometimes an
attempt was made to bring about a reconciliation, but then it
frequently happened that the number of slain to the credit of each were
unequal. Mozuma and Sephema might be at war, and Mozuma killed five,
whereas Sephema had killed only four. Sephema says, “I must kill
one more to make the balance, then I will treat for peace,” so
war continues. Some day Sephema has a chance, but kills two instead of
the one that was required; this gives her the advantage, and
Mozuma refuses to treat. So it goes on interminably. The position of a
small [30]village at war with a large one, was often
deplorable as no one dared to leave the village except under a strong
escort. I once knew a case of some Sephema men at feud with Mozuma,
hiring two women of the powerful village of Konoma to escort them along
the road as thus accompanied no one dare touch them.

Once at Piphima, when my assistant Mr. Needham was encamped there,
parties from two hostile villages suddenly met each other and rushed to
arms. He was equal to the occasion and stopped the combat. I made it a
criminal offence to fight on our road called the “Political
Path,” and it was generally respected as neutral ground.

No Angami could assume the “toga virilis,” in this case
the kilt ornamented with cowrie shells, already described, until he had
slain an enemy, and in the more powerful villages no girl could marry a
man unless he was so decorated. The cowrie ornaments were taken off
when a man was mourning the death of a relation.

To kill a baby in arms, or a woman, was accounted a greater feat
than killing a man, as it implied having penetrated to the innermost
recesses of an enemy’s country, whereas a man might be killed
anywhere by a successful ambush. I knew a man who had killed sixty
women and children, when on one occasion he happened to come upon them
after all the men had left the village on a hunting expedition.

Every Naga who was able to murder an enemy did so, and received
great commendation for it by all his friends. Later, when I was in
Manipur, I had a pleasant young fellow as interpreter. He often took my
boys out for a walk when he had [31]nothing else to do, and was a
careful, trustworthy man. Once I asked him how many people he had
killed (he wore the cowrie kilt, a sure sign he had killed some one). A
modest blush suffused his face as if he did not like to boast of such a
good deed, and he mildly said, “Two, a woman and a
girl!”

The Angamis when on friendly terms are an agreeable people to deal
with, polite, courteous, and hospitable. I never knew any one take more
pains or more successfully not to hurt the susceptibilities of those
they are talking to, indeed they show a tact and good feeling worthy of
imitation. My wife and I soon knew all the villagers well, and often
visited them, when we were always offered beer, and asked to come into
their verandahs and sit down, and just as we were leaving, our host
would search the hen’s nests to give us a few eggs. The beer we
never took, but many Europeans like it and find it wholesome. It is
made of rice and has rather a sharp taste. Their houses are large
substantial structures built of wood and bamboo thatched with grass,
and the eaves come low down. Houses with any pretensions always have
verandahs. Besides the houses, there are granaries, often at a distance
for fear of fire. The Angamis bury their dead in and about their
villages, and for a time, decorate them with some of the belongings of
the deceased. Naturally they strongly object to the graves being
disturbed, and in making alterations I was careful not to hurt their
feelings.

The more powerful villages in the interior of the hills have a large
area of cultivation on terraces cut out of the hillside, and carefully
irrigated. Some of [32]the terraces go up the hillsides to a great
height, and show considerable skill in their formation. On these
terraces lowland rice is grown and is very productive. Some of the
smaller outlying villages like Samagudting have only ordinary hill
cultivation, where upland rice is grown. The terrace land used to be
greatly valued, and was often sold at prices equal to £22 to
£25 per acre!

The Angamis, in common with most hill-tribes that I have come
across, have a vague indefinite belief in a supreme being, but look on
him as too great and good to injure them. They believe themselves also
to be subject to the influence of evil spirits, whom it is their
constant endeavour to appease by sacrifices. Every misfortune is, as a
rule, ascribed to evil spirits, and much money is spent on appeasing
them, the usual way being to offer fowls, of which the head, feet, and
entrails are offered to the demon, with many incantations. The other
parts are eaten by the sacrificer.

All kinds of animals are readily eaten by the Angamis, and those
dying a natural death are not rejected. Dogs’ flesh is highly
esteemed. When a man wants to have a delicate dish, he starves his dog
for a day to make him unusually voracious, and then cooks a huge dish
of rice on which he feeds the hungry beast. As soon as the dog has
eaten his fill, he is knocked on the head and roasted, cut up and
divided, and the rice being taken out, is considered the bonne
bouche. The Manipur dogs are regularly bred for sale to the
hill-tribes, Nagas included, and a portion of the bazaar, or market,
used to be allotted to them. I have seen a string of [33]nineteen
dogs being led away to be strangled. Poor things, they seemed to
realise that all was not well.

The Naga women are not handsome but very pleasant-looking, and many
of the girls are pretty, but soon age with the hard toil they have to
perform; working in the fields and carrying heavy loads up endless
hills. They have plenty of spirit and can generally hold their own.
They do not marry till they are nearly or quite grown up. Divorce can
be easily obtained when there is an equal division of goods. Often a
young man takes advantage of this, and marries a rich old widow, and
soon divorces her, receiving half her property, when he is in a
position to marry a nice young girl. The tribal name of the Angami
Nagas is “Tengima.” Naga is a name given by the inhabitants
of the plains, and in the Assamese language means “naked.”
As some of the Naga tribes are seen habitually in that state, the name
was arbitrarily applied to them all. It is the
greatest mistake to connect them with the snake worshippers, “Nag
Bungsees” of India. Neither Nagas or Manipuris, or any tribes on
the eastern frontier, are addicted to this worship, or have any
traditions connected with it, and any snake, cobra (Nag) or otherwise,
would receive small mercy at their hands. The slightest personal
acquaintance with the Assamese and their language, would have dispelled
this myth for ever.

The Nagas are skilful iron-workers and turn out very handsome
spears. Their women weave substantial and pretty coloured cloths, and
every man knows enough of rough carpentering to enable him [34]to build
his house, and make pestles and mortars for husking rice. They make
rough pottery, but without the potter’s wheel.

After Ghumbeer Singh’s Expedition, our next dealings with the
Angamis were in 1833, when Lieut. Gordon, adjutant of the Manipur Levy,
accompanied the Rajah of Manipur with a large force of Manipuris into
the Angami hills. On this occasion, Kohima and other villages were
subdued, as already stated, and an annual tribute exacted by
Manipur.

So far as the British territories were concerned, Naga raids went on
as usual, but nothing was done till early in January 1839, when Mr.
Grange, sub-Assistant Commissioner of the Nowgong District, was
despatched with a detachment of the First Assam Sebundies (now 43rd
Goorkha Light Infantry), fifty men of the Cachar Infantry, and some
Shan Militia, with orders to try and repress these annual outrages. His
expedition was ill supplied, but fortunately returned without any
severe losses. His route lay through North Cachar to Berrimeh; thence,
viâ Razepima to Samagudting and Mohung Deejood; beyond
gaining local knowledge there was no result, except perhaps to show
that a well-armed party could march where it liked through the
hills.

In December 1839, Mr. Grange again visited the hills, and, excepting
1843, an expedition was sent into the hills every year till 1846 when a
post was permanently established at Samagudting. None of these
expeditions had any really satisfactory result. The Angamis submitted
to our troops at the time, and directly we retreated, murder and the
carrying [35]off of slaves re-commenced. The establishment of
the post at Samagudting had the effect of improving our relations with
the people of that village; and Mozuma was always inclined to be
friendly; beyond this nothing was accomplished.

In August 1849, Bog Chand Darogal, a brave Assamese who was in
charge of Samagudting, was murdered by one of the clans of Mozuma,
owing to the rash way in which he interfered in a dispute with another
clan, which latter remained faithful to us, and thus led to
another expedition on a large scale. Finally, in December 1850, a large
force was sent up with artillery. Kohima, which had sent a challenge,
was destroyed on February 11th, 1851. In this last engagement over
three hundred Nagas were killed, and our prestige thoroughly
established. We might then, with great advantage to the people and our
own districts, have occupied a permanent post, and while protecting our
districts that had suffered so sorely from Naga raids, have spread
civilisation far and wide among the hill-tribes. Of course we did
nothing of the kind; on such occasions the Government of India always
does the wrong thing; it was done now, and, instead of occupying a new
position, we retreated, even abandoning our old post at Samagudting,
and only maintaining a small body of Shan Militia at Dimapur. The Nagas
ascribed our retreat to fear, the periodical raids on our
unfortunate villages were renewed, and unheeded by us; and finally, in
1856, we withdrew the detachment from Dimapur and
abandoned the post.

The Naga Hills and Manipur.

[Page 35.

After that, the Nagas ran riot, and one outrage after another was
committed. In 1862 the guard [36]and village of Borpathar were
attacked and, one Sepoy and thirteen villagers killed and two children
carried off as slaves, but no notice was taken; it was not till 1866
that, wearied out by repeated outrages and insults, we determined to
establish ourselves in the hills, and once for all put down
raiding.

A kind of vague boundary between Manipur and the Naga Hills had been
laid down in 1842, by Lieutenant Biggs on our part, and Captain Gordon
on the part of the Durbar, but in 1851, when utterly sick of Naga
affairs, we determined on a policy of non-intervention, permission in
writing was given to the Durbar to extend its authority over the Naga
villages on our side of the border. This must be remembered later on.
Failing any intention on our part to annex the hills, it would have
been good policy to have re-organised the Manipur territory, and to
have aided the Maharajah to annex and subdue as much as he could under
certain restrictions. Had this been done we should have saved ourselves
much trouble. Personally, I would rather see the Naga Hills properly
administered by ourselves, but the strong rule of Manipur would have
been far better than the state of things that prevailed for many years
after 1851. [37]

Almost from the day I took charge, I let it be known
that I was, as natives say, “a man of one word,” and that
if I said a thing, I meant it. If I promised a thing, whether a present
or punishment, the man got it; and if I refused any request, months of
importunity would not move me. This rule saved me much time and worry;
instead of being pestered for weeks with some petition, in the hope
that my patience would be worn out, I simply said Yes, or No, and the
people soon learned that my decision was final. Later on, during the
Naga Hills campaign, I found that my ways had not been forgotten, and
this made dealing with the people much simpler than it might have
been.

A certain number of the villages kept one or two men, as the case
might be, constantly in attendance on me to represent them. These were
called delegates, and received ten rupees each per mensem. I gave the
strictest orders to these men not to engage in their tribal raids, but
to remain absolutely neutral. Sephema had two delegates, Sejile and
Sallajee by name, and, one day, it was reported to me that the
[38]last had joined in a raid by his village on
Mozuma, and I instantly summoned him to attend and put him on his trial
for disobeying a lawful order. Some wise-acres in the place shook their
heads, and doubted if I were strong enough to punish, or the
advisability of doing so; but I held that
an order must be obeyed, otherwise, it was no use issuing orders, also,
that this was an opportunity of making an example. Of course it was an
experiment, as no one had been punished before for a similar offence,
and I well knew that resistance on his part would mean that to assert
my authority I must attack and destroy Sephema, but I felt the time had
come for vigorous action, and was prepared to go through with it. I
tried Sallajee, found him guilty, and sentenced him to six
months’ imprisonment in Tezpore jail. In giving judgment, I said,
“You have not been guilty of a disgraceful offence, therefore, I
do not sentence you to hard labour, and shall not have you bound or
handcuffed like a thief; but, remember, you cannot escape me, so do not
be foolish enough to run away from the man in charge of you.” I
then sent him in charge of two police sepoys through one hundred miles
of forest, and he underwent his imprisonment without attempting to get
away. Right thankful I was that my experiment succeeded. Sallajee lived
to fight against us, during the campaign in the Naga Hills in
1879–80.

The orders of the Government of India were strictly against our
responsibilities being extended. We took tribute from Samagudting, but
it was the only village we considered as under our direct rule, and
that only so long as it suited us. Before leaving [39]Calcutta, the Foreign Secretary said to me
emphatically, when I urged an extension of our sway—“but
those villages (the Angami Nagas) are not British territory, and we do
not want to extend the ‘red line.’”

However, Government may lay down rules, but as long as they are not
sound, they cannot be kept to by artificial bonds, and sooner or later
events prove stronger than theories. The fact is, that no Government of
late years had ever interested itself in the Eastern Frontier tribes,
except so far as to coax them or bribe them to keep quiet. The Abors on
the banks of the Burrhampooter had long been paid
“blackmail,” and any subterfuge was resorted to, that would
stave off the day of reckoning which was nevertheless inevitable.

As regards the Nagas, this timidity was highly reprehensible. We had
acquired such a prestige, that the least sign of vigorous action on our
part was sure to be crowned with success, so long as we did not make
some foolish mistake.

The people in the hills knew that we objected to the system of
raiding, and could not understand why, such being the case, we did not
put it down, and ascribed our not doing so to weakness, wherein they
were right, and inability wherein they were wrong. The less powerful
villages would at any time have been glad of our protection, and one of
the most powerful—Mozuma, was anxious to become subject to us.
Offers of submission had been made once or twice, but no one liked to
take the responsibility of going against the policy and orders of the
Government. At last an event occurred which brought [40]things
to a crisis, and forced us either to adopt a strong policy, or make
ourselves contemptible by a confession of weakness, and
indifference.

Towards the end of March 1874, a deputation came to me from the
village of Mezeffina begging for protection against Mozuma, with whom
they had a feud, and from whom for some reason or other they daily
expected an attack. They offered to become British subjects and pay
revenue in return for protection. I considered the matter carefully,
and before I had given my decision, crowds of old people, and women
carrying their children, came in asking me to save their lives. I at
once decided to grant their request, and promised them what they asked,
on condition that they paid up a year’s tribute in advance. This
they at once did, and I immediately sent a messenger to proclaim to
Mozuma that the people of Mezeffina were British subjects, and to
threaten them or any one else with dire vengeance if they dared to lay
hands on them. Our new subjects asked me and my wife, to go out and
receive their submission in person, an invitation which we accepted,
and next day a large number of men turned up to carry my wife, and our
baggage, and that of our escort, consisting of twenty men.

The Mezeffina men rested for the night in Samagudting, and early on
the following morning we started, and reached the village in good time,
where we were received with great demonstrations of respect. We spent
the night there, and then were conveyed back to Samagudting, after a
very pleasant visit.

I did not underrate the grave responsibility that I [41]incurred
in going against the policy of Government, but I felt it was utterly
impossible that I, as their representative, could quietly stand by, and
see a savage massacre perpetrated, within sight of our station of
Samagudting. There is no doubt that this would have speedily followed
had I sent the people away without acceding to their wishes. Of course,
I might have used my influence with Mozuma to prevent a raid in this
particular instance, but that would have been giving protection,
and, I argued, if we give protection, let us get a little revenue to
help to pay for it. Why should all the advantage be on one side?
Besides a half-and-half policy would never have succeeded.
“Thorough” should be the motto of all who deal with savage
and half-civilised races; a promise to refer to Government is of little
avail when people are thinking of each other’s blood. Action,
immediate action, is what is required. A failure to realise this,
brought on later the Mozuma expedition of 1877–78, in which a
valuable officer lost his life.

Besides the obvious objections I have pointed out, any attempt to
make terms in favour of one village after another by negotiations with
their adversaries, would have involved us in so many complications,
that it would probably have ended in a combination against us.

I reported the matter to Government, and before I could receive any
answer, the village of Sitekima which had a feud with Sephema came in
and asked for the same favour to be accorded to it, as had been granted
to Mezeffina. I accordingly took them over on the same terms, and again
issued a proclamation [42]calling on all people to respect their rights
as British subjects.

Soon after I heard from the Chief Commissioner of Assam, directing
me to take over no more villages without a reference. However, this
could not be, there was no telegraph in those days, and the tide in
favour of asking for our protection had set in in earnest, and must be
taken at the flood. ”Vestigia nulla
retrorsum” there was no retreat; and having acted according
to my judgment for the best interests of the State, I felt bound to
take further responsibility on myself, when necessary. Accordingly when
the little village of Phenina applied for protection and offered
revenue, I at once acceded, and accepted their allegiance as British
subjects, with the result that they were left in peace by their
powerful neighbours, and had no more anxiety as to their safety.
Phenina was followed by several other villages, to whom I granted the
same terms.

The Mozuma Nagas were always an intelligent set of men, and liked to
be in the forefront of any movement. Seeing the part that other
villages were taking, they came forward and offered to pay revenue, if
we would establish a guard of police in their village, and set up a
school for their children to attend. This was a question involving a
considerable expenditure of money, and as they were not in need of
protection, I felt that I could not accede to their request without
further reference, but I sent on the proposal to Government with a
strong recommendation that it should be adopted. The consideration of
it was put off for a time, and when very tardily my recommendation was
accepted, the [43]Mozuma people had, as I predicted, changed their
minds. Such cases are of constant occurrence. When will our rulers take
the story of the Sibylline books to heart?

The question of education generally, was one that greatly interested
me, my success in Keonjhur1 in the tributary Mehals of
Orissa, where I had introduced schools, having been very great. In
combination with other suggestions, I strongly urged the advisability
of establishing a regular system of education, including religious
instruction, under a competent clergyman of the Church of England. I
pointed out that the Nagas had no religion; that they were highly
intelligent and capable of receiving civilisation; that with it they
would want a religion, and that we might just as well give them our
own, and make them in that way a source of strength, by thus mutually
attaching them to us. Failing this, I predicted that, following the
example of other hill-tribes, they would sooner or later become debased
Hindoos or Mussulmans, and in the latter case, as we knew by
experience, be a constant source of trouble and annoyance, Mussulman
converts in Assam and Eastern Bengal, being a particularly disagreeable
and bigoted set. My suggestion did not find favour with the
authorities, and I deeply regret it. A fine, interesting race like the
Angamis, might, as a Christian tribe, occupy a most useful position on
our Eastern Frontier, and I feel strongly [44]that we are not justified
in allowing them to be corrupted and gradually “converted”
by the miserable, bigoted, caste-observing Mussulman of Bengal, men who
have not one single good quality in common with the manly Afghans, and
other real Mussulman tribes. I do not like to think it, but, unless we
give the Nagas a helping hand in time, such is sure to be their fate,
and we shall have ourselves to thank when they are utterly
corrupted.

The late General Dalton, C.S.I., when Commissioner of Chota Nagpure,
did his utmost to aid Christian Mission among the wild Kols; his
argument being like mine, that they wanted a religion, and that were
they Christians, they would be a valuable counterpoise in time of
trouble to the vast non-Christian population of Behar. In the same way
it cannot be doubted, that a large population of Christian hill-men
between Assam and Burmah, would be a valuable prop to the State.
Properly taught and judiciously handled, the Angamis would have made a
fine manly set of Christians, of a type superior to most Indian native
converts, and probably devoted to our rule. As things stand at present,
I fear they will be gradually corrupted and lose the good qualities,
which have made them attractive in the past, and that, as time goes on,
unless some powerful counter influence is brought to bear on them, they
will adopt the vile, bigoted type of Mahommedanism prevalent in Assam
and Cachar, and instead of becoming a tower of strength to us, be a
perpetual weakness and source of annoyance. I earnestly hope that I may
be wrong, and that their future may be as bright a one as I could wish
for them. [45]

Once more before the weather began to be unpleasantly
hot, we went down to Dimapur that I might inspect the road and a rest
house being built at Nowkatta. Dimapur though hot, was pleasant enough
in the evening, when I used to row my wife about on the large tank in a
canoe which just held us both. We could see a few feet below the
surface, the remains of the post set up when a tank is dedicated to the
deity. This post is usually many feet above the water, but here it had
rotted away from age. On a tree close to the rest house I shot a
chestnut coloured flying squirrel.

One sultry afternoon I rode out alone to Nowkatta. About half-way I
was stopped by a sudden storm, one of the most terrific I have ever
seen; the wind howled through the forest, and the trees swayed to and
fro literally like blades of grass. As the storm increased, trees were
torn up by the roots right and left, and some that were very firmly
rooted were shattered in pieces. Many of these trees were 80 to 120
feet in height, and large in proportion, but the [46]wind was
so high that I never heard the sound of the crash. I hardly expected to
escape being crushed by a falling tree, and nothing but the extreme
activity of my pony, a little Manipuri, saved me. I was at length
enabled to get on to Nowkatta, but as I returned, I had much difficulty
in making my way through the masses of fallen trees which formed an
obstacle often six feet in height, and I could only pass them by
penetrating the dense underwood, and riding round one end.

I returned to Dimapur later than I expected and drenched by the
soaking rain. Next day we went back to Samagudting very glad to be
again in a cooler atmosphere. We both paid for our visit to the
lowlands in a sharp attack of intermittent fever. Luckily, my wife
speedily recovered; but it told on my system, already saturated with
malaria and was the forerunner of constant attacks.

Except for its unhealthiness, Dimapur was a nice place, and, if
properly opened out, and cultivated, the country would be far more
salubrious. For this reason I advocated families being induced to
settle there as cultivators; and I had a scheme for establishing a
Police Militia Reserve in that district. I thought that a certain
number of the Naga Hills police might with advantage be discharged
every year and enlisted as reserve men, liable to serve when needed in
case of trouble; a reduced rate of pay to be given to each man, and a
grant of land to cultivate. I believe the system would have worked
well, but it was not sanctioned.

An incident occurred in the month of August which might have proved
serious. A native of a [47]Kutcha Naga village within sight of
Samagudting came to complain that, while gathering wild tea-seed for
sale, he had been driven off by a Konoma Naga. Konoma, though not the
most populous village, had long been considered the most powerful and
warlike in the hills, and a threat from one of its members was almost a
sentence of death to a man from a weak village. The Merema clan also,
one of the worst in the hills for lawless deeds, had never made its
submission to Captain Butler, though it had on one occasion to his
predecessor. On hearing the man’s complaint, I at once sent off a
message by a Naga calling upon the chiefs of Konoma to come in to me,
and also to cease molesting their neighbours; but the man returned,
saying that they refused to come in, and intended to do as they liked
with the tea-seed, as it was theirs. This was more than I could put up
with, and I selected a particularly trustworthy man, a naik (corporal)
in the police named Kurum Singh,1 who knew the Naga language,
and would, I was convinced, speak out fearlessly, and deliver my
message. I sent him off at once to Konoma to call upon the head-men to
come in without delay, and make their humble submission to me within a
day and a half of receiving the summons, failing which I would attack
and destroy their village. Kurum Singh left, and I felt rather anxious,
as Konoma contained five times as many warriors as I had police all
told, and it occupied a strong position; however, I felt I had done my
duty. It was a great satisfaction when Kurum Singh returned, saying
that the chiefs were coming in, and they did so [48]within
the stipulated time, and made their submission and presented me with a
large state spear as a token of it. They also humbly apologised and
promised never to molest that Kutcha Naga village again; and when I
spoke of the Queen, begged me to write to her and say, that she must
not believe any idle tales against the Konoma men, as they would be her
humble servants. It was a satisfactory ending to what might have been a
troublesome business. The state spear now ornaments my hall.

Fulford Hall.

[Page 48.

On the 23rd June, my wife presented me with a son, and he being the
first child of pure European parentage born in the hills, the Nagas of
Samagudting took great interest in the baby, and old Yatsolé the
Péumah, said he should be their chief and named him “Naga
Rajah.” The friendly women and girls from the village constantly
came to see him. We liked the hills and the people, and the work so
much that we both felt we could willingly have passed our lives among
them. All the same, our accommodation was really most wretched, and
food was bad and scarce, and water scarcer. As the rainy season
advanced the place grew more and more unhealthy, and having a baby to
attend to, my wife never left Samagudting. I continued to go down to
Dimapur occasionally, and sometimes rode out with my friend Needham to
inspect the path that was being cut to Mohung Deejood and a rest house
being built at a place in the forest on that road, called Borsali. It
was pleasant to have a companion during a long lonely ride. Needham was
an indefatigable worker, and always ready for a dash. He made a capital
[49]frontier officer, and has since greatly
distinguished himself on the N.-E. Frontier.

Towards the end of August, the Vanda Cærulea orchids began to come
into flower. There was a magnificent plant of them in a large old tree
on the summit of the hill, indeed the most splendid specimen of their
kind that I ever saw; but wild flowers, many really beautiful, were
generally procurable, especially a small snow-white flower rather like
a periwinkle that grew in the jungle on a small ever-green bush. Ferns,
including maidenhair, were very plentiful, and we made collections of
them in our morning and evening walks. These walks often led us past
stray huts, and once my wife was asked to come into one and prescribe
for a sick Naga woman. We both entered it and finding that the woman
had fever, we told her husband to keep her cool and quiet, and promised
some medicine. When we again went to see her, the hut, about nine feet
by seven feet in size, was full of little fires on the floor, over
which several Nagas were drying strips of flesh from an elephant that
had been killed a few miles away. The temperature must have been about
110 degrees, so little wonder that the poor woman was no better. The
husband said she would not take her medicine, and when in our presence
he attempted to give it she hit him on the head; yet he wore the
warrior’s kilt, so had taken at least one life. When my wife sat
down by her and gave her the medicine she took it readily. Towards the
end of the rainy season many were laid low by fever. Natives of other
parts of India until thoroughly acclimatised, suffer greatly from the
diseases peculiar to jungle districts, [50]and our servants were not
exceptions to the rule. Once acclimatised, a Hindoostani seems able to
stand anything. It used to be said in my regiment, the 1st Assam Light
Infantry Battalion, now 42nd, that Hindoostani recruits spent their
first three years’ service in hospital! I am sure that something
of the same kind might have been said of those who came to the Naga
Hills before the headquarters were removed to Kohima.

Captain Butler, recognising the unsuitableness of Samagudting for a
station, had recommended the removal of the headquarters to Woka, in
the Lotah Naga country, and about sixty-three miles from Kohima. I
spoke to him on the subject, and pointed out the superior advantages of
Kohima as a central position, dominating the Angami Naga country. He
quite agreed with me, but said he had advocated Woka as being nearer
the plains, nearer water carriage, and altogether a more comfortable
situation, especially for the officers. I went into the whole subject
most carefully, and before leaving the Naga Hills I thought it right to
record my opinion in a memorandum to the Government of Assam. This I
did, pointing out as forcibly as I could the very superior advantages
of Kohima, and urging most strongly that it should be adopted as our
headquarters station in the Naga Hills. As I was only the officiating
agent, I could not expect my views to carry as much weight as Captain
Butler’s, but convinced as I was, I was bound to state them. The
question was not settled for some years when Kohima was the site
selected, and it has ever since been the headquarters station.
[51]

I had never got over the attack of fever I had in April, and as the
rainy season advanced, and we were for days together enveloped in mist,
I had constant attacks, with other complications, and as Captain Butler
was coming out in November, and the doctor strongly recommended me to
go to England again, I determined to apply for leave. My friend Needham
had gone on leave to Shillong, so I could not think of starting till he
returned. He was due at Samagudting early in November, and I prepared
to leave then. It was with most sincere regret that we made
arrangements for starting. We had got used to the discomforts of the
place and had been very happy there and liked the people, and felt that
they liked us; the cold weather too was just beginning and everything
around us looked beautiful.

I had determined to march straight through the forest to Doboka, and
thence take boat down the Kullung river to Gowhatty. It was a dreadful
march to undertake, along a mere track untraversed by any European for
years, but my wife liked the idea of it, and it was shorter than the
route viâ Nigriting. On November 6th, we reluctantly said
“good-bye” to all our kind friends at Samagudting and
marched to Dimapur, where we halted next day to get all our things into
order. Some of the chiefs of Samagudting accompanied us so far on our
way and bade us a sorrowful adieu on the 7th. One old fellow took quite
an affectionate farewell of our baby Dick. When I saw him again in
1879, he was blind, and one of his pretty little girls was dying.

We marched through dense forest on the 8th to [52]Borsali,
my wife riding and carrying the baby in her arms, there being no other
mode of progression along such a bad road. On the 9th after seven
hours’ actual marching, we reached Mohung Deejood, a place
prettily situated on the banks of the Jumoona river with the last speck
of the Rengma Hills standing out in high relief behind the village, but
at some distance from it. Next day we again had a tiring march of
eleven hours, including a halt for breakfast at a place called
“Silbheta” where there are splendid waterfalls, and did not
reach our halting place, Bokuleea, till 6 P.M. The last two marches had
been through a country devastated by tigers which had literally eaten
up the population; each day we passed deserted village sites. At
Bokuleea we made rafts and floated down the river to Doboka, which we
reached on November 13th.

Doboka is situated close to the hill of the same name and was a
prominent object from Samagudting. There we took boats, and travelled
in them down the Kullung river. We reached the junction with the
Burrhampooter at daybreak on November 17th, and Gowhatty at midday. I
was most thankful to see my wife and child safe in the Dak Bungalow
after what was for delicate people a perilous journey, though an
interesting and enjoyable one, through a country hardly ever traversed
by European officials, and never by women and children. After a few
days at Gowhatty to rest ourselves, we departed by steamer for
Goalundo, arriving there early on November 29th, and immediately left
for Calcutta, which we reached the same evening and went to stay with
our kind friends the Rivers Thompsons, [53]with whom we had
travelled out to India in 1873. Glad as we were to be in civilised
quarters once more after all our wanderings, we could not help
regretting the kindly genial people we had left, and the beautiful
scenery of the forest and mountain land, where we had lived so long and
so happily.

On arrival in Calcutta, I went before the Medical Board, but not
liking to go to England again so soon, I applied for three
months’ leave to visit the North-West Provinces for change of
air, and we visited Benares, Lucknow, Cawnpore, and other towns. I do
not attempt to describe them, as it has been often done by abler pens
than mine. The after symptoms of malaria increased, and it was vain to
prolong my stay in India in the hope of a cure. The Medical Board said
my appearance was sufficient without examination, so we left Calcutta
by the next steamer, going by “long sea” to avoid the
fatiguing journey across India to Bombay. After unusually rough weather
in the Mediterranean and off the coast of Spain, we landed at
Southampton, on March 9th, at 9 P.M., and went
on to London next morning. [54]

Malaria, and all the evils that follow in its train,
are more easily acquired than got rid of. Possibly two years in
England, including four visits to Carlsbad, which high medical
authorities seem to consider, and very justly, a sine quâ
non, might give a man a good chance if he never again visited a
malarious district, otherwise, my own experience shows me that two
years are nothing. Every time I have gone before a Medical Board in
London, preparatory to returning to duty, their last charge has been,
“You must never again go to a malarious district!” Medical
Boards propose, and Government and circumstances dispose.

I stayed at home in a high and healthy part of the Midlands, and
left for India again in October. I arrived in Calcutta in November,
where I again suffered from malarious symptoms; but I soon got better,
and was attached to the Foreign Office, at my own request, extra
attachés being required for the Imperial Assemblage.

I had the good fortune to see the whole of that gorgeous pageant,
the like of which this generation [55]will probably never witness
again, under the most favourable auspices; and though I had on an
average eighteen hours’ work out of each twenty-four, I was well
repaid by being able to take part in it. I met many old friends, and
also became acquainted with Salar Jung, Maharajahs Scindiah and Holkar,
Sir Dinkur Rao, Madhava Rao, and several other now historical
celebrities. The Viceroy’s reception-tent at night was a grand
sight, filled with gallant soldiers, European and native, and great
statesmen.

Among the new arrivals was the Khan of Khelat, an intelligent but
savage-looking chief, with eyes all about him. I was being constantly
deputed to carry polite messages from the Viceroy to different chiefs
and celebrities and to meet them at the railway stations. Among those
whom I met were the envoy from the Chief of Muscat, also the Siamese
Ambassador and his suite, a highly intelligent and sensible set of men.
I remember well the rough-and-ready way in which the younger Siamese
officers looked after their luggage and effects. They were provided
with a handsome set of tents, and all dined together at one table in
European fashion, in the most civilised way, with the British officer
attached to them.

I stayed at Delhi till the assemblage broke up, and after a few days
in Calcutta with the Foreign Office, went to Bombay to meet my wife,
who, with our two boys, arrived there on February 2nd. We at once set
out on our way to Almorah in the Himalayas, where I was permitted to
reside for a year and compile Foreign Office records. [56]

We were delayed at Moradabad for a few days, as the passes were
covered with snow. At last we started, and found Nynee Tal deep in
snow, and the lake frozen. Next day we marched across the track of an
avalanche, and the following afternoon reached the Almorah Dak
Bungalow, or rest house. The ground was covered with snow, and the cold
intense, the bungalow draughty and very uncomfortable. After a few days
we got into a house, which Sir H. Ramsey, who was then out on duty in
the district, had kindly taken for us, and I dived deep into my
records, consisting of early documents relating to Assam and the
Singpho tribes.

As the weather grew warmer, Almorah became very pleasant. I pined
for active work, but our stay here gave my wife experience in the mode
of life in India, for which she was afterwards very thankful, and she
obtained hints on housekeeping subjects from other ladies, which were a
help to her later on. Life in the Naga Hills was of course very
different to what it is in more civilised parts of India.

The Foreign Office had my name down in their list for an
appointment. I could have gone to Manipur when I landed in Calcutta,
but was not well enough. In July, I had a telegram to say that Lieut.
Durand, who had lately been appointed, was ill, and must be relieved.
Would I go? I at once replied in the affirmative, and off we started on
July 16th. It was very short notice, but changing quarters at short
notice is part of an Indian official’s life, and the prospect of
work was delightful to me. We had a trying journey down to Calcutta, as
the rains had not begun in the North-West Provinces, [57]and the
heat was tremendous. However, we arrived none the worse for it, and
stayed for a day or two with our kind friends, the Medlicotts.

As Colonel Keatinge, the Chief Commissioner of Assam, wished to see
me before I went to Manipur, I was ordered to join at Shillong, so we
proceeded by rail to Goalundo, one night’s journey from Calcutta,
and thence by river steamer to Chuttuk, on the Soorma, where we changed
into country boats, and proceeded up a smaller river and across great
jheels or shallow lakes, often passing for miles through high grass
growing in the water, which hid us from everything, till we reached a
place called Bholagunj, situated on a river rapidly becoming narrower,
where we again changed, this time into small canoes, the only
conveyances that could take us up the rapids, with which the river
abounds.

From Chuttuk we had come through a country mostly covered with grass
jungle, twelve to fifteen feet in height; now we passed through forest
scenery, very lovely fine trees, with festoons of creepers and flowers
overhanging the stream. At last we reached Thuria Ghât, where the
ascent of the hills commenced, and there we halted for the night in the
Dak Bungalow, or rest house. Most places situated as Thuria Ghât
is, would be deadly on account of malaria, but it seems to be an
exception, and, as far as I have seen, healthy.

Knowing the servant difficulties in the province of Assam, we had
brought servants with us from Almorah, men who had implored us to take
them. When I consented to do so I voluntarily raised [58]their
wages from fifty to eighty per cent. above what they had been
receiving, but with the exception of a Dhobee (washerman), and a bearer
(a compound of housemaid and valet), they all became corrupted by the
other servants they met at Shillong, and who spoke of Manipur in very
disparaging terms, so before going farther I let them go, as they
demanded an enormous increase of wages.

The Dhobee Nunnoo, and the bearer Horna, stuck to me to the very
last, and proved admirable servants. It was fortunate that we had
servants, as there were none at Thuria Ghât rest house; as it
was, we managed very well, and were prepared to march in the morning
before the coolies were ready to take up our luggage. We had a tiring
march up the hill to Cherra Poojee; my wife and the children were in
baskets on men’s backs, but I was on foot and felt the march in
the intense heat to be very fatiguing, though we halted to rest
half-way. However, when we reached the plateau of Cherra Poojee, 4000
feet above Thuria Ghât, the cool air speedily set me right, and
we all enjoyed the scenery, hills, plains, waterfalls in abundance,
deep valleys, and the lowlands of Sylhet, covered with water, as far as
the eye could reach. We had a comfortable bungalow to rest in, and a
cool night at last.

Next day we marched to Moflung, 6000 feet above the sea, and then to
Shillong, where for the next few days we were hospitably entertained by
the Chief Commissioner, Colonel (now General) Keatinge, V.C., C.S.I.,
who kindly sent a carriage to meet us on the road. As Colonel Keatinge
wished me to remain at Shillong for a time, and meet Mr. Carnegy,
[59]political officer in the Naga Hills, who was
coming there later on, I arranged to stay, and took a house; so we
settled down comfortably till the early part of October—a very
pleasant arrangement for us instead of facing the intense heat of the
Cachar Valley in August. It gave me a good opportunity of looking over
the records of the Chief Commissioner’s office, where I found
much relating to Manipur, but I fear that it was lost when the Record
Office was burnt down some years ago, the copies also having been
destroyed in Manipur during the rebellion of 1891. At last the day for
leaving came, and we packed up our things and prepared once more to set
off on our travels.

Before leaving, I paid several visits to Colonel McCulloch, who,
since retiring from the service, had established himself at Shillong,
and asked his advice on many points, and learned much from him
regarding Manipur. He very kindly gave his opinion freely on all
questions, telling me where some of my predecessors had failed, and
pointing out the pitfalls to be avoided. He added to all his kindness
by writing to the Maharajah, and telling him that, from what he had
seen of me, he was sure it would be his fault if we did not get on
together. [60]

Lowremba Subadar, an excellent old fellow, formerly in
the service of Colonel McCulloch, was sent to Shillong to be in
attendance on me, and of course to find out all he could about me and
report the result. Before I left, he sent a note to the Maharajah of my
requirements in the way of coolies, etc., for our long journey of ten
days between Cachar and Manipur, and I also intimated that, as the
representative of the British Government, and as one who well knew what
was due to me as such, I should expect to be received with proper
ceremony.

This was a point on which I laid much stress, as my experience had
taught me that in a native state so tenacious of its dignity and
ancient customs as Manipur, my future success depended in a great
measure on my scrupulously requiring all that I was entitled to, and as
much more as I could get. It had been a complaint against one of my
predecessors that he had been discourteous, and I determined that the
Manipuris should not have to complain of me on that score, and in my
letters I took care to be as courteous and considerate as possible.
[61]

On former occasions it had been the custom for a new political agent
to enter the capital unattended, and to call on the Maharajah the next
day, the latter repaying the visit a day later. This I did not consider
sufficient, and I determined that he should come out to meet me in
state. When Colonel McCulloch returned to Manipur the second time, this
had been done, Colonel McCulloch being an old and intimate friend of
the Maharajah. I quoted this as a precedent. I tried in vain to get the
Foreign Department to back up my request, but could not induce them to
interfere on my behalf, so I took the responsibility on myself, and
sent a formal demand to the Maharajah to send a high officer—a
major commanding a regiment—to meet me on the road, and to meet
me himself in state at a suitable distance from the capital. The result
will be described.

All being ready we left Shillong, my wife, nurse and children on
men’s backs as before, for Cherra Poojee, where we arrived the
second day; thence, on the third day, we went to Thuria Ghât, on
by boat viâ Bholagunj, to Sylhet and Cachar. We reached
Cachar on October 17th, after passing the historical fort of
Budderpore, where a battle was fought with the Burmese in 1825, and
settled down in the bungalow of our kind friend Major Boyd who was
away. Our coolies arrived on October 18th, and we again packed our
things and prepared to depart on our final march.

We left Cachar for Manipur on October 20th, my wife and the nurse
and boys in “doolies,” a kind of tray four feet long by two
in width, with sides and ends eight inches in height, supported by two
long [62]poles running along the bottom of each side, and
slung at each end to loose bars of wood carried on men’s
shoulders. The passenger sits inside as best he can, and there is a
light matting roof thrown over to protect him from the weather. To
begin with, it is an uncomfortable and shaky conveyance, but in time
one gets accustomed to it.

Our baggage was carried mostly on men’s backs, each load
varying from sixty to seventy pounds in weight. Altogether we had, I
daresay, one hundred coolies, as everything we required for a ten
days’ journey had to be carried, in addition to personal baggage
and stores for our use on arrival. I had provided a tent in case of
need, but did not use it, as rude huts were provided for us at all the
stages along the road. Our first halt was at Luckipore, in British
territory, and, as usual, the first march was the most trying; for
servants, coolies, etc., have to learn each other’s ways. I had
an escort of one hundred men of the 35th Native Infantry, under a
subadar, as it was expected that I might have to go on an expedition
soon after my arrival, and these men had their own special coolies, so
we were a large party altogether.

We halted at Luckipore, as I have said, a few miles from the Hoorung
Hills and at Jeree Ghât. Next day we left British territory and
entered Manipur, where we found some huts built for our accommodation.
At Jeree Ghât the really interesting part of the journey
commenced; thence, till Bissenpore in the valley of Manipur is reached,
the traveller marches day after day over hills and across rivers. The
first day from Jeree Ghât we crossed the Noon-jai-bang
[63]range, the summit of which is 1800 to 1900 feet
above the sea from whence a fine view of the next range, Kala Naga or
in Manipuri, Wy-nang-nong, is obtained. The road which was made under
the superintendence of Captain (afterwards Colonel) Guthrie, of the
Bengal Engineers between 1837 and 1844, at the joint expense of the
British and Manipuri Governments, the former paying the larger share,
was excellent for foot passengers and pack animals, but not wide enough
and too steep for wheeled traffic on a large scale.

After descending from Noong-jai-bang we halted on the banks of the
Mukker river amidst splendid forest, and next day ascended the Kala
Naga range and halted on the crest close to a Manipuri guard house at a
height of 3400 feet.

From this spot a magnificent view of the plains of Cachar is
obtained, and in fine weather, far beyond them the Kasia hills in the
neighbourhood of Cherra Poojee may be descried. The scene at sunset is
sometimes magnificent. In the foreground the dark forests, and in the
far distance a huge bank of golden clouds with their reflection in the
watery plain, and a mingled mass of colours, green fields, purple,
crimson, red and gold, all mixed up in such a way as no painter would
ever attempt to copy. As the sun sinks those colours change and
re-arrange themselves every minute in quick succession, and when at
last night closes in, the impression left on the mind is one of
never-ending wonder and admiration.

From Kala Naga to the Barâk river is a very stiff descent,
calculated to shake the knees of an inexperienced hill-walker, and many
is the toe-nail lost [64]by the pressure of one’s boots. Here as
at the Mukker and other rivers farther on, the Barâk is crossed
by cane suspension bridges, which vibrate and move at every step. In
the dry season these rivers are crossed by very cleverly constructed
bamboo pontoon bridges, but when the rainy season has commenced, they
become raging torrents, which nothing but a fish could live in, and but
for the suspension bridges, all communication with the outer world
would be cut off. The bridge over the Eerung river was one hundred
yards in length, and like all the others, was, when I first went to
Manipur, constructed entirely of cane and bamboo, and could by great
exertions, be finished in three days. During my period of office, wire
ropes were substituted for the two main cables on which all rested, and
the strength of the bridges greatly increased thereby. It was an
important part of my duty to see that both roads and bridges were kept
in order.

Our march was interesting but uneventful. We started after breakfast
and generally reached our halting place in time for a late luncheon or
afternoon tea. Wherever we halted we had a hut to live in, generally in
some picturesque spot, one day giving a splendid view of hill and
valley with nothing but forests in view, on another we were perched on
a hill overlooking the beautiful Kowpoom valley, a sheet of
cultivation. At last, on the ninth day after crossing the Lai-metol
river, and ascending the Lai-metol, we had our first view of the valley
of Manipur1 spread out like a huge map at our feet. Seen as it
was by us at the end of the rainy season, and from a [65]height
of 2600 feet above it, is a vast expanse of flat land bordered by
hills, and mostly covered with water, through which the rice crops are
vigorously growing. To the south the Logtak lake is visible, with
several island hills in it, while far away to the north-east might be
seen the glittering roofs of the temples of Imphal, the capital. It
requires time to take in the view and to appreciate it. In the dry
season it looks very different with brown, dried-up hills in the place
of green.

The valley of Manipur possesses a few sacred groves, left, according
to the universal aboriginal custom, throughout all parts of India that
I have visited, for the wood spirits, when the land was first cleared;
but no natural forest. These groves are little isolated patches of
forest dotted here and there; the villages have plenty of planted
trees, many of great antiquity, and from the heights above they have
the appearance of woodland covered with grass. Besides this, all is one
sheet of cultivation or waste covered with grass. It was once entirely
cultivated, that is, before the Burmese invasion of 1819, when the
population of the valley, was from 500 to 1000 per square mile.

We halted to rest on the summit of the Lai-metol, and then
descended, passing sometimes under a kind of wild apple tree with very
eatable fruit, and once through a lovely grove of oak trees, called
“Oui-ong-Moklung,” and then, still far below us, saw some
elephants sent for us by the Maharajah. These elephants were posted at
Sebok Tannah,2 a [66]police station where the ground
begins to grow level, and a mile farther brought us to Bissenpore,
where there was a rude rest house. Here we halted for the night.

I have mentioned my demand that I should be met with proper
ceremony. It was of course stoutly resisted, every argument founded on
old custom, etc., being used against it. However, I stood firm, and
absolutely refused to go beyond Bissenpore, till the Maharajah gave me
an assurance that he would do all I required. In the end he gave in,
and a day before reaching that place, his uncle met me on the road with
a letter saying that all should be done as I wished. This official, by
name Samoo Major, became a great friend of mine, and remained so till I
finally left; he is, alas, I believe, now a prisoner in the Andamans,
having been supposed to be implicated in the rising in 1891.

The next day we left Bissenpore in good time, and marched the
seventeen miles to the capital, halting half-way at Phoiching, where I
was met by some officials. Farther on, some of still higher rank came
to greet me, and finally, at the entrance to the capital, I was met by
the Maharajah himself, surrounded by all his sons. A carpet was spread
with chairs for him and myself, we both of us having descended from our
elephants, advanced and met in the centre of the carpet, and having
made our salutations (a salute of eleven guns was fired in my honour),
we sat and talked for two minutes. We then mounted, the
Maharajah’s elephant being driven by his third son, the master of
the elephants; and we rode together through the great bazaar, till our
roads diverged at [67]the entrance to the fortified enclosure to
the palace, where we took leave of each other, and he went home, and I
went to the Residency, which I reached at four o’clock, my wife
and children having made a short cut.

The Residency then was a low and dark bungalow built of wattle and
daub, and thatched. It had one large room in the centre, and a bedroom
on either side with a small semicircular room in front and rear of the
centre room; there was one bathroom (I speedily added more), and
verandahs nearly all round. There were venetians to the windows, but no
glass, and the house was very dark and very full of mosquitoes.
However, all had been done by the Residency establishment to make the
place comfortable, and we were too old travellers and too accustomed to
rough it, to grumble. The house might be rude and uncomfortable, but
some of my happiest days were spent in it. The building was at the end
of a garden, with some nice mango, and other trees here and there, and
had a little more ground attached to it, but we were on all sides
surrounded by squalid villages and filthy tanks and cesspools, and the
situation was very low, though well drained. Our English nurse grumbled
incessantly, but we had engaged in advance, a nice pleasant Naga woman,
named Chowkee, to help her, and soon made everything right for the
night, but the mosquitoes were terrible, and though my life has been
spent in countries swarming with them, I give Manipur the palm, it
beats all others!

No European lady or children of pure blood had ever before been seen
in Manipur, and at first there [68]was great excitement wherever we
went, all the population turning out to look at us. By degrees they
became accustomed to the novelty, but still occasionally people from
distant villages coming to the capital stopped to stare. Every now and
then my wife had visits from strange old ladies, often from the Kola
Ranee, the widow of the last Rajah of Assam, and by birth a Manipuri
princess, daughter of Rajah Chomjeet, and first cousin of the Maharajah
Chandra Kirtee Singh. Once an old woman of 106 years of age, with a
daughter of 76, were visitors, and once or twice some other relic of a
bygone age called on us. Among the latter was old Ram Singh, the last
survivor of Wilcox’s famous survey expeditions in Assam, in
1825–26–27–28. Wilcox was one of the giants of old,
men who with limited resources, did a vast amount of work among wild
people, and said little about it, being contented with doing their
duty. In 1828, accompanied by Lieutenant Burton, and ten men belonging
to the Sudya Khamptis (Shans), he penetrated to the Bor Khamptis
country, far beyond our borders, an exploit not repeated till after our
annexation of Upper Burmah. Ram Singh had a great respect for his
former leader, and loved to talk of old days. [69]

After a day’s rest I paid a visit to the
Maharajah, having first stipulated as to my proper reception. I was
received by the Jubraj (heir apparent) at the entrance to the private
part of the palace, and by the Maharajah a few paces from the entrance
to the Durbar room (hall of reception), and conducted by him to a seat
opposite to his own, with a table between us, his sons and officials
being seated on either side. I read the Viceroy’s letter,
informing the Maharajah of my appointment, and, after a short
conversation, during which my age was asked (a question invariably put
to European officers by Manipuris of rank), I took my leave, and was
escorted back to the place where I was met on my arrival. I was
favourably impressed by what I saw, but I at once realised that I was
on no bed of roses, and that I would have to make a good fight to
obtain and maintain my just influence with the Durbar. The Maharajah
had undoubtedly grievances against us, and I felt that it was folly and
injustice not to acknowledge these. At the same time, he and his
ministers had on some occasions taken advantage of this state of
affairs to behave in an [70]unseemly way, and for this a sharp
rebuke had to be administered. The natural sense of injustice is strong
in mankind, and I saw that chafing under slights they had received, and
often magnifying them, it was necessary for me first to acknowledge
these, and try as far as possible to make amends, and then to come down
on them very sharply for having forgotten their position.

The Maharajah returned my visit, and we had one or two interviews
when we discussed affairs. I pointed out the extreme gravity of
resisting the British Government in any way, and we soon became very
friendly. Colonel McCulloch’s introduction had been a great
advantage to me, and every one was inclined to give me credit for good
intentions, at the same time that every effort was made to restrict my
authority and influence.

The Maharajah was a rather thick-set man of about five feet five
inches in height and forty-five years of age. In India he would have
been called fair. He had the features of the Indo-Chinese race, and the
impassive face that generally goes with them, but which is often not so
marked in the Manipuris. He was far the ablest man in his dominions,
and a strong and capable ruler. He had a great taste for mechanical
arts of all kinds, and a vast fund of information which he had acquired
by questioning, for he questioned every one he met. English scientific
works were explained to him, and his researches extended even to the
anatomy of the human body, of which he had a very fair knowledge. He
had a taste for European articles, and owned a large assortment. He had
glass manufactured in his [71]workshops, and once sent me a
petroleum lamp, every portion of which was made by his own artificers.
His rule, for such a strong man, was mild as compared with that of his
predecessors, and he thoroughly realised that his prosperity depended
on his loyalty to the British Government. At the same time, he was most
tenacious of his rights, and earnestly desired to preserve his country
intact, and to give us no excuse for annexing it.

The fear of tempting us to annex was so great that, once when I
thought of growing a little tea for my own consumption, he was much
agitated. I, as a matter of courtesy, first sent to ask him if he had
any objection to my growing a little, and, in reply, he sent an
official to beg me not to think of it. This man said, “The
Maharajah will supply you with all the tea you want free of cost, but
begs you not to think of growing it.” The officer went on to
explain, that it was feared that, if I successfully demonstrated that
tea could be grown in Manipur tea planters would come up, and there
would be a cry for annexation! Certainly our annexation of the Muttuk
country in 1840 justified the suspicion, and we cannot blame people for
having long memories.

The Jubraj, or heir apparent, was an amiable young man of twenty-six
or twenty-seven, with a pleasant smile which was wanting in his father.
He was of a weak character, although possessing some ability. Like his
father, he could speak Hindoostani, but both were ignorant of English.
Backed up and influenced by an honest and capable Political Agent, he
would probably have made an excellent [72]ruler, and, had we done
our duty by him, he might now be at the head of a flourishing little
state, instead of having died an exile in Calcutta.

The next son, Wankai Rakpar, afterwards known as the
“Regent” during the recent troubles, was an ignorant,
uncouth boor, who knew no language but his own, and was quite unfitted
for any responsible work; he took little part in public affairs. The
third known as Samoo Henjaba (Master of the Elephants), was a clever,
pleasant, sensible young man, said by Thangal Major, no mean judge of
character, to be the ablest of the ten sons of the Maharajah. He died
during my tenure of office.

The fourth son, Kotwal Koireng, who afterwards acquired an infamous
reputation as the “Senaputtee,” was always a bad character,
cruel, coarse, and low minded. From early childhood he was given to
foul language, and was absolutely dangerous when he grew up. His mother
had been unfaithful to the Maharajah, who used to say that the son was
worthy of her. Colonel McCulloch had always disliked him as a boy.

None of the other six sons of the Maharajah were in my time mixed up
in public affairs, so I need not describe them, except that Pucca Senna
was the champion polo player, though not otherwise worthy of notice.
The practical ministers were Bularam Singh, or Sawai Jamba Major, and
Thangal Major. They were both faithful adherents of the Maharajah,
although the first who had once had much influence had married the
daughter of the former Rajah Nur Sing. He was nominally the first in
rank, but [73]Thangal Major was rapidly gaining ground, and
viewed with increasing favour by the Maharajah.

I quote the following description of the Government of Manipur from
an article I wrote for The Nineteenth Century, by kind
permission of the editor. “The government of Manipur has always
been a pure despotism tempered by assassination and revolution. While
he occupies the throne the rajah is perfectly absolute. A minister may
be all powerful, and all the princes and people may tremble before him;
for years he may practically rule the rajah; but he is after all a
cipher before his sovereign, a single word from whom may send him into
exile, make him an outcast, or reduce him to the lowest rank. Yet with
all this power an obscure man may suddenly spring up, as if from the
ground, to assert himself to be of the blood royal, and gathering a
large party round him place himself on the throne. All this happened
not unfrequently in days gone by, when many were the rajahs murdered or
deposed. History tells us of rajahs being deposed, re-elected, and
deposed again.”

There can be no doubt that in old days the people benefited by the
system of constant revolutions, as a rajah was obliged to keep in touch
with his subjects if he wished to occupy the throne for any length of
time, and many concessions were made to gain a strong following. The
average intelligence of the Manipuris being higher than that found
among the cultivators of many other native states, the people knew what
reforms to ask for, and often insisted on their being granted.

Nothing can be harder on the people of a native [74]state,
than for the paramount power to hold a ruler on the throne with a firm
grasp, and protect him against internal revolution, and at the same
time to refrain from insisting on needful reform.

Chandra Kirtee Singh’s long reign and strong government, were
in many ways a great benefit to the people, because he was a man of
sound sense, and though selfish and unscrupulous, naturally of a kindly
disposition, a fact proved by the few executions that took place in his
reign. In his earlier years he had the benefit of Colonel
McCulloch’s good advice, enforced by his great influence. All the
same there can be no doubt that a little more interference judiciously
applied, would have vastly improved the state of affairs during the
time he occupied the throne. Of course an individual Political Agent
might bring about improvements in the administration, but these all
rested on his personal influence and lasted only while he remained. Had
the Government of India stepped in and exerted its authority they would
have been permanent.

Bularam Singh was a typical Manipuri in face and had good manners,
but he had no force of character, and gradually yielded to his more
able colleague. He was generally known as the Toolee-Hel major,
i.e., the major or commander of the Hel regiment.

Thangal Major was a remarkable character, and had a chequered
history. His uncle had saved the life of Rajah Ghumbeer Singh (Chandra
Kirtee Singh’s father), then a child, when his older brother
Marjeet attempted the murder of all his relations. Thangal Major was
one of the props of the throne [75]when Ghumbeer Singh ascended it.
He had been introduced at Court at an early age, and accompanied the
Rajah in an expedition against the village of Thangal inhabited by a
tribe of Nagas. He was given the name Thangal in memory of the event.
He accompanied the old Ranee with her infant son Chandra Kirtee Singh
into exile, when she fled after attempting the Regent Nursing’s
life while he was engaged in worship in the temple of Govindjee in
1844; had stayed with him and carefully watched over his childhood and
youth. When in 1850 the young Rajah came to Manipur to assert his
rights, Thangal accompanied him and greatly contributed to his success.
This naturally made him a favourite, and his bold, active, energetic
character always brought him to the front when hard or dangerous work
had to be done. For a time he fell into disfavour, but Colonel
McCulloch, recognising his strong and useful qualities, and the fact
that he was an exceedingly able man, interceded for him with the
Maharajah, and he again came to the front. In person he was short and
thickset, darker than the average of Manipuris, with piercing eyes and
rather a prominent nose, a pleasant and straightforward but abrupt
manner, and, though a very devoted and patriotic Manipuri, was
extremely partial to Europeans. He knew our ways well, and soon took a
man’s measure. He was acquainted with every part of Manipur, and,
though ignorant of English, could point out any village in the state,
on an English map. In fact, he had studied geography in every branch to
enable him to defend the cause of Manipur against the survey officers
who were suspected by [76]the Manipuris of wishing to include all they
could within British territory. He knew all our technical terms such as
“watershed” in English, and had gained much credit for
enabling the survey to carry on their work in 1872, when the patriotic
but ill-judged zeal of an older officer, Rooma Singh, nearly brought
about a rupture. Thangal Major’s knowledge of us and our customs,
as well as of our moral code, was astonishing. He realised the power of
the British Government, and though he would resist us to the utmost in
the interests of Manipur, nothing would have induced him to join in any
plot against our rule in India. When I say that he was unscrupulous and
capable of anything, I only say that he was what circumstances and
education had made him, and would make any man under similar
conditions. He had not the polish of a native of Western India, and had
not had the advantage of English training that many ministers in other
states have. The internal administration of Manipur had never been
interfered with by us, and Thangal Major was the strong able man of the
old type. A strong and capable political agent might do well with him,
but a weak one would soon go to the wall. He commanded the Toolee
Nehah, and was often called by that title, but was better known as
Thangal Major.

One of my predecessors had quarrelled with Thangal Major, and this
had led to recrimination, and very unseemly conduct on the part of the
Durbar. This conduct I had rebuked as directed, but it was a question
as to how Thangal Major was to be dealt with. I was authorised to
demand his [77]dismissal from office, and for some time he had
not been received by my two immediate predecessors. I made careful
inquiries, and feeling convinced that there was a good deal to be said
on Thangal’s side, and that by careful management I should be
able to keep him well in hand, I sent for him. The old man, he was then
sixty, having been born in 1817, came in a quiet unostentatious way,
and after a severe rebuke, and receiving an ample apology from him, I
forgave him, and restored him to the position of minister in attendance
upon me; and thenceforth I saw him daily, generally for an hour or
two.

In addition to the Minister, two Subadars, Lowremba and Moirang,
were placed in attendance on me, but as time went on, and I and the
Durbar became friends, we transacted business in a friendly way,
through any one. [78]

Manipur consists of about 8000 square miles, chiefly
hills surrounding a valley 650 square miles in extent. This valley from
north to south is about 35 miles, and from east to west 25. The capital
Imphal, as it formerly existed, was a large mass of villages looking
like a forest from the neighbouring heights, and covering about 15
square miles. Every house was in the centre of its own well-planted
garden, and every garden contained a few forest trees. The census of
1881 gave the population of the capital as 60,000, that of the rest of
the valley an equal number, while the hills were estimated to have
100,000. It was only in the capital that pure Manipuris lived, except
the soldiers in the military posts which were scattered all over the
country.

The valley itself is 2600 feet above the sea, and the hills rise on
an average to an equal height above it, though here and there some of
the distant peaks are 10,000 to 12,000 feet in height. Thus Manipur
contains within its borders a variety of climate from almost tropical,
to a greater cold than that of England. The heat is never very
excessive in the [79]valley, and for eight months in the year it is
most enjoyable. Foreigners suffer much from bronchial affections,
doubtless owing to the waterlogged soil, but these complaints are not
more prevalent among the native population than elsewhere, and if
sanitary laws were properly observed, the valley might be a most
healthy place and the population would rapidly overflow.

The capital is almost intersected by the 25th parallel north
latitude, and 95° east longitude, and is 132 miles by road from
Silchar, the capital of Cachar, and 70 from Tamu in the Kubo valley.
The valley of Manipur forms the centre of a chain of valleys, viz.,
Cachar, Manipur, and Kubo, connecting Bengal with Burmah proper. The
sides of the hills facing the valley of Manipur are generally covered
with grass or scant jungle which rapidly dries up as the cold season
advances, but when once the crest is passed, a fine forest is reached;
except where the hill-tribes have destroyed it, to raise one crop and
then let it relapse into grass and scrub. Alas, I have seen noble oak
forests laid low and burned for this purpose. It is an abominable
custom, and nothing can justify our permitting it where we hold sway.
That it is not necessary is shown by the Angamis and some of the
Tankhool tribes, who though they do occasionally indulge in this
wasteful cultivation are quite independent of it, as they terrace their
hillsides and cultivate the same tract for generations. The forests of
Manipur are plentifully supplied with fine timber trees; several
varieties of oak and chestnut exist, and many others unknown in England
such as Woo-Ningtho, an excellent timber said to resist [80]the
ravages of white ants; wang, which can be worked in its green state as
it never warps; teak, etc. Fir trees are found in abundance to the
south, east, and north-east of the valley, and bamboos of many kinds,
including the giant, are plentiful.

Rhododendrons and wild azaleas of several kinds, as well as many
species of brilliant orchids, add greatly to the beauty of the forests,
and in some parts tree ferns are abundant. I know nothing more lovely
in the world, than some of the forest scenery of Manipur with its
solemn stillness.

The early history of Manipur is lost in obscurity, but there can be
no doubt that it has existed as an independent kingdom from a very
early period. In the days when the Indian branch of the Aryan race was
still in its progressive and colonising stage, this district was
repeatedly passed over by one wave after another of invaders, intent on
penetrating into the remotest parts of Burmah. We have no means of
ascertaining what government it had before the year 700 A.D., but it is believed that a monarchy prevailed at that
era. About the year 1250 A.D., a large Chinese
force invaded the country, and was signally defeated; all who were not
killed being made prisoners. These taught the Manipuris silk culture,
and a number of them were settled at Susa Rameng in the valley, where
they have still descendants. The Chinese also taught the art of
brick-making, and erected two solid blocks of masonry in the palace,
between which the road to the Lion Gate passed. These blocks were
levelled with the ground by the Burmese invaders, but rebuilt on the
old foundations by Ghumbeer Singh. [81]

Manipur in old days possessed a famous breed of ponies, larger and
better bred than the so-called Burmese ponies that come from
the Shan states. On these ponies were mounted the formidable cavalry
that in the last century made Manipur feared throughout Upper Burmah,
and enabled her rulers on more than one occasion, to carry their
victorious arms within sight of Ava, where their Rajah Pamheiba erected
a stone pillar to commemorate the event. The cavalry used the regular
Manipuri saddle protecting the legs, and were armed with spears and two
quivers of darts. These darts in a retreat were grasped by a loop and
swung round in a peculiar way, when the shaft formed of peacock
feathers with an iron head suddenly became detached, and flying with
great force inflicted a fatal wound wherever it struck. A skilful man
could throw them with great precision.

The territories of Manipur varied according to the mettle of its
rulers. Sometimes they held a considerable territory east of the
Chindwin river in subjection, at other times only the Kubo valley, a
strip of territory, inhabited, not by Burmese, but by Shans, and lying
between Manipur proper and the Chindwin. Again they were driven back
into Manipur proper. For the greater part of the last century, the Kubo
valley unquestionably belonged to Manipur, and it was never in any
sense a Burmese province, being, when not under Manipur, a feudatory of
the great Shan kingdom of Pong.

In the middle of the last century one of those extraordinary men who
appear from time to time in the East, destined to shine like a blazing
meteor, [82]imparting exceeding brilliancy to their country,
and then as suddenly vanishing, so that it returns to its original
obscurity, appeared in Burmah. His name, Along Pra, has been corrupted
by us into Alompra, by which he is always known. He speedily raised
Burmah to a commanding position. The kingdom of Pong was overthrown and
its territories mostly annexed, Pegu was conquered, our district of
Chittagong threatened, and Siam forced to relinquish several coveted
possessions. The war fever did not die with Alompra, and in 1817 and
1819 Assam and Manipur were respectively invaded, internal dissensions
having bred traitors, who, in both countries, made the path of the
invaders easy. But the master spirit was gone, and when we appeared
upon the scene, they could make no efficient stand. Had we then marched
to Ava, the Burmese Empire would have collapsed like a house of cards,
and the events of 1885 been anticipated by sixty years. As it was, we
did not realise our strength and the Burmese weakness, and contented
ourselves with annexing Assam and Cachar and protecting Manipur.

It is not very evident what the religion of Manipur was in early
days, but we see no trace of Buddhism. Probably, whatever the belief in
early years when the people may have been affected by the intermittent
stream of Aryans passing through, for many centuries no religious rites
were used before the recent rise of Hindooism, further than to appease
evil spirits, as is the custom of the surrounding tribes. There can be
little doubt that some time or other the Naga tribes to the north made
one of their chiefs Rajah of Manipur, and that his family, while,
[83]like the Manchus in China and other conquerors,
adopting the civilisation of the country, retained some of their old
customs. This is shown in the curious practice at the installation of a
Rajah, when he and the Ranee appear in Naga costume; also that he
always has in his palace a house built like a Naga’s, and
wherever he goes he is attended by two or three Manipuris with Naga
arms and accoutrements. I once told a Manipuri what I thought on the
subject, and he was greatly struck by it, and admitted the force of
what I said.

Towards the middle of the last century, for some reason or other, a
great Hindoo revival took place in the East of India. Assam was once
Hindoo but had long become Buddhist under its Ahom kings, and now
became converted to Hindooism, by Brahmins from Bengal. All
difficulties were smoothed over, and converts were made by tens of
thousands. It is to be regretted that it was so, as these
“converts” quickly deteriorated. The easy conquest of
Hindooised Assam by the Burmese, when Buddhist Assam had successfully
resisted a powerful army sent by Arungzebe from India and composed
largely of recruits from Central Asia, seems proof of it, if all other
evidence were wanting.

The process of conversion in Manipur began a generation later than
in Assam, and proceeded on somewhat different lines, but it was not
less effective, and was still going on at a late date. It had not the
same deteriorating effect, for the Rajahs assumed to themselves a
position greater than that of High Pontiff, and could at any time by
their simple fiat have changed the religion of the country and degraded
[84]all the Brahmins, in fact all admissions to the
Hindoo pale from the outer world of unorthodoxy were made by the Rajah
himself. Sometimes the inhabitants of a village were elevated en
masse from the level of outcasts, to that of Hindoos of pure caste,
but more often single individuals were “converted.” A man
belonging to a hill-tribe, for instance, could, if the Rajah chose, at
any time receive the sacred thread of the twice-born castes, and on
payment of a small sum of money be admitted as a Hindoo and was
thenceforth called a Khetree.1 This privilege was not accorded
to Mussulmans. I once asked a Manipuri why they received hill-men and
not Mussulmans, both being Mlechas,2 according to Hindoo theory.
He said it was because the hill people had sinned in ignorance, whereas
Mussulmans knew the evil of their ways.

Of course, every one who knows anything of Hindooism is aware that
theoretically a man must be born a Hindoo, and that proselytism is not
admitted. Practically, however, this rule is ignored on the eastern
frontier, and all along it from Sudya down to Chittagong, where
conversions are daily taking place. I remember villages in Assam where
caste was unknown thirty-five years ago, but where now the people live
in the odour of sanctity as highly orthodox and bigoted Hindoos.
Strange to say, the pure Hindoos of the North-West Provinces
acknowledge the pretensions of these spurious converts sufficiently so
as to allow of their drinking water brought by them. It is probably
easier to take the people at their own valuation than to carry water
one’s self from a distance when tired. By the [85]religious law of the Hindoos, it is forbidden to
eat or drink anything touched by one of another tribe.

Our first relations with Manipur date from 1762, when Governor
Verelst of the Bengal Presidency—with that splendid self-reliance
and large-mindedness characteristic of the makers of the British Indian
Empire, men who acted instead of talking, and were always ready to
extend our responsibilities when advisable—entered into a treaty
with the Rajah of Manipur. As this treaty came to nothing, practically
our connection with the little state really dates from 1823. It had
been invaded by the Burmese in 1819, and its people driven out or
carried off into slavery in Burmah. The royal family were
fugitives.

At that time Sylhet was our frontier station, and our relations with
the Burmese, who were at the highest pitch of their power, were daily
becoming more strained. On our side of the frontier we were ably
represented by Mr. David Scott, agent to the Governor-General, and
preparations were being made for the inevitable struggle. One day a
young Manipuri prince waited on Mr. Scott and asked leave to raise a
Manipuri force to fight on our side. He was short and slight, and of
indomitable courage and energy, and the agent to the Governor-General
recognising his ability, allowed him to raise 500 men. These were soon
increased to 2000, cavalry, infantry and artillery. Two English
officers, Captain F. Grant and Lieutenant R. B. Pemberton, were
attached to the force, thenceforth called the Manipur Levy, to drill
and discipline it.

In 1825 a general advance was made all along our line, Cachar was
invaded and subdued, and we [86]essayed to pursue the enemy into
Manipur and thence into Burmah, but our transport arrangements failed.
Hitherto we had been accustomed to wars in the arid plains of India,
and our military authorities did not realise the necessities of an
expedition into the eastern jungles. Hence, camels and bullocks were
sent to dislocate their limbs in the tenacious mud and swamps of
Cachar, and when the advance into Manipur was desired, our regular
troops were powerless. At this crisis the Manipur Levy showed its
immense value. The men could move lightly equipped without the
paraphernalia of a regular army, and advance they did, and with such
effect that in a short time not only was Manipur cleared, but the enemy
driven out of the Kubo valley. Later on, Ghumbeer Singh was recognised
as Rajah of Manipur, and the Kubo valley was included within his
territories.

Manipur at this time contained only 2000 inhabitants, the miserable
remnants of a thriving population of at least 400,000, possibly
600,000, that existed before the invasion. Ghumbeer Singh’s task
was to encourage exiles to return, and to attempt to rebuild the
prosperity of his little kingdom. He was a wise and strong though
severe ruler, and though he owed his throne greatly to his own efforts,
he to the last retained the deepest feelings of loyalty and gratitude
to the British Government, promptly obeying all its orders and doing
his utmost to impress the same feeling on all his officers.

As is always the case, though we had carried all before us in the
war, we began to display great weakness afterwards. We had an agent,
Colonel Burney, at Ava, and the Burmese who were not [87]disposed
to be at all friendly, constantly tried to impress on him the fact that
all difficulties and disputes would be at an end if we ceded the Kubo
valley to them, that territory belonging to our ally Ghumbeer Singh of
Manipur. Of course the proposal ought to have been rejected with scorn,
and a severe snub given to the Burmese officials. The advisers of the
Government of India, however, being generally officers brought up in
the Secretariat, and with little practical knowledge of Asiatics, the
manly course was not followed. It was not realised that a display of
self-confidence and strength is the best diplomacy with people like the
Burmese, and with a view to winning their good-will we basely consented
to deprive our gallant and loyal ally of part of his territories. An
attempt was made to negotiate with him, but Major Grant said, “It
is no use bargaining with Ghumbeer Singh,” and refused to take
any part in it. He was asked what compensation should be given, and he
said 6000 sicca rupees per annum.

When Ghumbeer Singh heard the final decision he quietly accepted it,
saying, “You gave it me and you can take it away. I accept your
decree.” The proposed transfer was very distasteful to many of
the inhabitants, including the Sumjok (Thoungdoot) Tsawbwa,3
but they were not consulted. The Kubo valley was handed over to the
Burmese on the 9th of January, 1834, and on that day Ghumbeer Singh
died in Manipur of cholera. Perhaps he was happy in the hour of his
death, as he felt the treatment of our Government most severely.
[88]

Ghumbeer Singh did much for Manipur during his
comparatively short reign. He made all the roads in his territory safe,
and subdued the different hill-tribes who had asserted their
independence during the troubles with Burmah. Imphal, the old capital,
had not been re-occupied, though the sacred spot where the temple of
Govindjee stood was cared for; but a new palace had been built at
Langthabal at a distance of three and a half miles from Imphal where
several fine masonry buildings were erected, and a canal dug for the
annual boat races. Langthabal1 was deserted in 1844 and the old
site re-occupied, and in my time, the buildings at Langthabal were
picturesque ruins, having been greatly injured by time and the
earthquakes of 1869 and 1880. Ghumbeer Singh left an infant son,
Chandra Kirtee Singh who was two years of age at his father’s
death and a distant cousin, Nur Singh, was appointed Regent. Contrary
to all precedent, the Regent was loyal to his charge and governed well
and ably for the infant [89]prince, in spite of constant attempts
to overthrow his government. In 1844, the Queen-Mother wishing to
govern herself, attempted to procure Nur Singh’s murder as he was
at prayers in the temple. She failed and fled with her son the young
Rajah Chandra Kirtee Singh to British territory. The Regent then
proclaimed himself Rajah with the consent of all the people. The
Manipur Levy had been maintained up till 1835 when the Government of
India withdrew their connection from it, and ceased to pay the men.
Major Grant left Manipur, and Captain Gordon, who had been adjutant
since 1827, was made Political Agent of Manipur. Captain Pemberton had
long since been on special survey duty.

Captain Gordon died in December 1844. He was much liked and long
remembered by the people whom he had greatly benefited, among other
ways by introducing English vegetables, and fruits. He was succeeded by
Lieutenant (afterwards Colonel) McCulloch.

Rajah Nur Singh died in 1850, and was succeeded by his brother
Debindro, a weak man, quite unfit for the position. In 1850, young
Chandra Kirtee Singh invaded the valley with a body of followers,
Debindro fled, and he mounted the throne without opposition. Up to this
time the Government of India had always acknowledged the de
facto Rajah of Manipur, and revolutions with much accompanying
bloodshed were common. Now, however, McCulloch strongly urged the
advisability of supporting Chandra Kirtee Singh, and he received
authority to “make a public avowal of the determination of the
British Government to uphold the present Rajah and [90]to
resist and punish any parties attempting hereafter to dispossess
him.” The Court of Directors of the East India Company, in a
despatch dated May 5th, 1852, confirmed the order of the Government of
India and commented thus: “The position you have assumed of
pledged protector of the Rajah, imposes on you as a necessary
consequence the obligation of attempting to guide him, by your advice,
but if needful of protecting his subjects against oppression on his
part; otherwise our guarantee of his rule may be the cause of
inflicting on them a continuance of reckless tyranny.”

These words of justice and wisdom were steadily ignored by
successive governments. On no occasion did the Government of India ever
seriously remonstrate with the Rajah, or make a sustained effort to
improve his system of administration. The East India Company’s
order became a dead letter, but the resolution to uphold Chandra Kirtee
Singh bore good fruit, and during his long reign of thirty-five years
no successful attempt against his authority was ever made, and he on
his part displayed unswerving fidelity to the British Government.

I have already mentioned the great work that Colonel McCulloch
accomplished with regard to the Kukis. This added to his long
experience, gave him great influence in the State, and when he retired
from the service in 1861, it was amidst the regrets of the whole
people. Able, high-minded, respected, and having accomplished a task
few could even have attempted, he left without honour or reward from
his Government. How many men of inferior capacity, and quite without
his old-fashioned [91]single-minded devotion to duty, are nowadays
covered with stars! When he left he made every effort to hand over his
vast power and influence intact to his successor, and to smooth his way
as much as possible. Had the Government of India exercised the
slightest tact and discretion in the selection of its agent, he might
have carried on the good work so ably commenced, and brought Manipur by
rapid strides into the path of progress. As it was it would have been
difficult to find an officer more unfitted to succeed Colonel McCulloch
than the one selected; he was soon involved in difficulties, and after
a troubled period was ordered by Government to leave at three
days’ notice. For a time the agency remained vacant, but the
Rajah applied for another officer, and Colonel McCulloch was requested
by the Government to quit his retirement, and again assume charge. He
did so, and was received with acclamations by Rajah and people, the
whole State turning out to meet him. His first effort was to restore
the confidence forfeited by the late political agent, and everything
went on as smoothly as ever; but, towards the end of 1867, he finally
retired, staying on a few days after his successor’s arrival to
post him up in his work. This time it would have been thought that some
judgment would be shown in the selection of an officer for the post;
but the next political agent was eminently unfitted and for some years
before his death in 1876, was on very indifferent terms with the
Durbar.

During the brief period that elapsed between the last event and my
taking charge, two different officers held the post. [92]

My Government establishment consisted of a head clerk, a most
excellent man, Baboo Rusni Lall Coondoo; a native doctor, Lachman
Parshad; native secretary and Manipuri interpreter; Burmese
interpreter; Naga interpreter; Kuki interpreter; and latterly six
chuprassies, i.e., orderlies or lictors. As for private servants we had
three Naga girls, a Mugh cook and assistant, who could turn out a
dinner equal to any of the London clubs for one hundred people at a
couple of days’ notice, and under him I had four young Nagas
learning their work, as I was determined to do more for my successors
than my predecessors had done for me, viz., teach and train up a staff
of servants so as to save the necessity of importing the scum of
Calcutta. I had an excellent bearer, Horna, as I have already stated,
and under him were two or three Nagas; washermen, syces,
gardeners, water-carriers, etc., made up the number. All my
interpreters, chuprassies, and servants, I clothed in scarlet livery
which made a great impression, and gradually the air of squalor which
prevailed when I arrived began to disappear. I had charge of a
Government Treasury from which I used to pay myself and the Government
establishment. The currency of the country was a small bell-metal coin
called “Sel,” of which 400 to 480 went to the rupee, also
current, but copper pice were not used, and all Manipuri accounts were
kept in “Sel.”

At this time the Naga Hills were still under a political officer
whose actual jurisdiction was limited to the villages which had paid
tribute to me, as already described. He was supposed to exercise a
certain influence over many of the large villages, [93]but the
influence was lessened by the feeling entertained by the Nagas that our
stay in the hills was uncertain, and that for all practical purposes
the Manipuris were the power most to be reckoned with, and from our
point of view it was very desirable that our headquarter station should
be removed to Kohima. A dispute with Mozuma, due chiefly to our
vacillating conduct, was now going on, but its chiefs would not accept
our terms, and an expedition to coerce them was in preparation in which
I was to take part. Mr. Carnegy was political officer, a man of ability
and determination, and very pleasant to deal with. During the dispute
with Mozuma, the other villages held aloof, thinking Mozuma was able to
hold its own, and waiting to see which side gained the day.

Burmah was still under its native rulers. There were constant
frontier disputes going on between it and Manipur, but that state of
things was chronic.

To the south of Manipur, the Chin and Lushai tribes were quiet.

There was a long standing boundary dispute between Manipur and the
Naga Hills. The boundary had been most arbitrarily settled by us when
the survey was carried out, so far as a certain point, beyond that it
was vague. Manipur claimed territory which we certainly did not
possess, and which she had visited from time to time, but did not
actually hold in subjection. Other portions, as I afterwards proved,
were occupied by her, though the fact had not been ascertained. Over
and over again efforts had been made to bring the Durbar to terms, but
without success. I determined to grapple with [94]the
question at once. I took a map and drew a line including all that I
thought Manipur entitled to, in the neighbourhood of the Naga Hills,
and advised the Maharajah to accept the arrangement on the
understanding that when I visited the country claimed further eastward,
I would recommend the Government of India to allow him to retain all
that he actually held in his possession. This was agreed to by him and
confirmed by Government, and I believe that substantial justice was
done to both parties.

I should like to have seen Manipur get more, as a set-off against
our unjust treatment in former years, but as we were sure eventually,
to occupy all the Naga Hills, it was necessary to make such an
adjustment as would not injure British interests in the future.
[95]

The first few weeks in Manipur were taken up in making
acquaintance with the place and people, and doing all that was possible
to disarm the fears of the Durbar. Never was there one so suspicious.
At first all my movements were watched, and wherever I went spies, open
or secret, followed; however, I encouraged it to the utmost, and told
the officials to inquire into everything I did, and they very soon saw
that there was no necessity for special espionage, though all my acts
were still noted and reported. Several little difficulties cropped up
regarding British subjects, and required some care in dealing with
them. In one case, a man had taken upon himself to intrigue with some
of the Nagas under Manipur, and urged them to declare themselves
British subjects, and in another, a man had robbed the Maharajah. In
both instances the Durbar had acted foolishly and precipitately, though
under much provocation. However, I turned both men out of the country,
with orders never to return.

The question of British subjects and their rights was one that gave
me much trouble for years. [96]Judging by a decision of the High
Court of Calcutta that all the descendants of European British subjects
were European British subjects, I insisted on all descendants of
British subjects being considered as such, and subject to my
jurisdiction. After a long struggle I carried my point, and it very
greatly strengthened my position.

A few more words about the capital and the Manipuris may not be
amiss. Imphal, as has been said,1 covered a space of fifteen
square miles. On the north side it touches on some low hills, called
Ching-mai-roong, and running westward is bounded by a shallow lake,
which is partly enclosed by a continuation of the hills, here called
Langol, on which grows a celebrated cane used for polo sticks. Then,
running south, it is intersected by several roads, notably the road to
Silchar, which enters the capital at a place called Kooak-Kaithel
(i.e. crow bazaar). Here it is bounded by rice cultivation.
Going farther south, and sweeping round in an easterly direction, it is
bounded by the Plain of Lang-thabal, at one extremity of which lies the
old capital; here two rivers intersect it. And going farther east, it
is bounded by the lower slopes of a hill rising 2500 feet above the
valley. Then turning to the northward and crossing two rivers, we come
again to the place from which we started. The want of the town was a
good water-supply; there were one or two fair-sized tanks, or ponds, as
they would be called in England, and the afore-mentioned rivers, of
which the water is not improved by receiving [97]the
ashes of the dead burned on their banks. Beyond this, all the water
obtainable was derived from small ponds, one or more of which was to be
found in every garden enclosure. The ground on which the capital stands
must at one time have been very low, probably a marsh, and it has been
artificially raised from time to time by digging these tanks; every
raised road, too, meant a deep stagnant ditch on either side. The
people are not sanitary in their habits, and when heavy rain falls the
gardens are flooded, and a fair share of the accumulated filth is
washed into the drinking-tanks, the result being frequent epidemics of
cholera.

The Manipuris themselves are a fine stalwart race descended from an
Indo-Chinese stock, with some admixture of Aryan blood, derived from
the successive waves of Aryan invaders that have passed through the
valley in prehistoric days. It may be this, or from an admixture of
Chinese blood, but certainly the Manipuris have stable and industrious
qualities which the Burmese and Shans do not possess. Since then the
race has been constantly fed by additions from the various hill-tribes
surrounding the valley. The result is a fairly homogeneous people of
great activity and energy, with much of the Japanese aptitude for
acquiring new arts. The men seem capable of learning anything, and the
women are famous as weavers, and in many cases have completely killed
out the manufacture of cloths formerly peculiar to certain of the
hill-tribes, over whom the Manipuris have obtained mastery by superior
intellect. They are always cheerful, even on a long and trying march,
and are good-humoured [98]under any difficulties and never apparently
conscious of fatigue. They are very abstemious, and live chiefly on
rice and fish, which is often rotten from preference. Though rigid
Hindoos outwardly, they have a curious custom by which a man of low
caste, marrying a high-caste woman, can be adopted into her tribe, the
exact reverse of what prevails in India, where a woman of high caste
marrying a low-caste man is hopelessly degraded and her children
outcasts.

It is impossible for those who have marched much in the hills with
Manipuris to avoid liking them. Their caste prejudices, though rigid,
give no trouble to others. Hungry or not, they are always ready to
march, and march all day and all night, if necessary. Still, the
Indo-Chinese races exceed even the ordinary Asiatic in reserve and
sphinx-like characteristics, and the Manipuris are an inscrutable set.
I had many intimate friends among them, yet, on the whole, prefer the
pure Hindoo.

What is now the valley of Manipur was evidently once a series of
valleys and ranges of hills, between the higher ranges which now border
it and converge to the south. The rivers now flowing through the valley
then flowed through it like the Barak, Eerung, and others, at a much
lower level. One of the great earthquakes, to which these regions are
so subject, closed the outlet and raised a permanent barrier; thus a
lake was formed, and in the course of ages the alluvium brought down by
the streams filled it up to its present level leaving the Logtak Lake
in its lowest part, a lake which has constantly lessened and is still
lessening in size. The crests of [99]the sunken ranges are still to
be seen running down the valley, and mostly parallel to the bordering
ranges, such are Langol, Langthabal, Phoiching, Lokching, and others.
Sometimes a river, as at a place called “Eeroce Semba,”
runs at the base of a hill, and cuts away the alluvium, showing the
solid rock. This alluvium forms one of the deepest and richest soils in
the world.

I have referred to the proposed expedition to the Naga Hills, to aid
the troops there in the operations against the powerful village of
Mozuma. In order to take part in this expedition I had brought up one
hundred men of the 35th Native Infantry, from Cachar, and I started
from Manipur on December 3rd, 1877, having sent on the 35th and a
Manipuri force of over three hundred men under the Minister
Bularam Singh. I rode out the first day to
Mayang Khang, a distance of forty miles, where I caught up my men. I
passed Sengmai at a distance of thirteen miles on the border of the
valley, and up to which the road is flat, and soon entered a broken
country, first grass, then scrub, then forest. The road lay over a
succession of spurs of the Kowpree Hills which run down into a very
narrow valley, and was as bad as can be imagined—very steep
ascents and descents. At last we reached Kaithemabee, the second stage,
and fourteen miles from Sengmai. It is exceedingly picturesquely
situated, having a splendid view of the Kowpree range, here rising to
over 8000 feet. The outpost is situated on a high bank overlooking a
stream, and beyond it a splendid rolling slope of grass extending for
miles.

All this part of the country is covered with beehive-shaped
[100]cairns, built of well-selected stones. They are
said to have been made by the Köereng Nagas, formerly a very
powerful race, whose miserable remnants now inhabit the neighbouring
hills. Farther on the bee-hives end suddenly, and a region of monoliths
is entered. Probably both monoliths and bee-hives were erected to
commemorate great events in the lives of the builders, the death of a
chief, the birth of a son, the giving of a great feast when a bison, or
possibly many, were killed. Monoliths are common, and exist all over
the Naga Hills and among the Kolarian and Dravidian tribes, as well as
all over Europe. Cairns also are common, but the beehive-shaped cairns
are, I believe, unique, and found only in Manipur and in this
neighbourhood.

I reached Mayung Khang at 4 P.M., having an
hour before crossed the watershed, all the streams south of it falling
into the tributaries of the Chindwin Irrawaddy, all to the north
running into the tributaries of the Ganges and Burrhampooter.

Mayung Khang is a highly undulating grassy slope, the Kowpree rising
to nearly nine thousand feet in the west, while after crossing a small
stream a lower range closes it in on the east. We halted there for the
night close to a monolith, and the next day marched to Mythephum.

Mythephum or Muphum (lit. Manipuri settlement) was a small
military post, and we encamped below in a wide valley among recently
cut rice fields, with a river rushing by us. The place is so named from
having been a Manipuri settlement, in the old days before the Burmese
invasion. High hills rose above [101]us on all sides, the valley
running in and out among them and following the course of the stream.
To our north, and at a distance of a mile or two, was the once powerful
village of Muram, still populous but submissive. I had a small but most
comfortable straw-built hut, and well remember how delightful the early
morning was next day, when I had breakfast at sunrise and saw my
thermometer at thirty-two degrees. Only those accustomed to great heat
realise the delights of a low thermometer. Mythephum is over 4000 feet
above the sea, and being a low valley is often extremely cold.
Sometimes in winter the stream is for a day quite choked by blocks of
ice, and I have seen the thermometer at twenty-six degrees, 150 feet
above the valley, which probably meant eighteen degrees at the lowest
level on the grass.

It was my intention to march on Mozuma by a track which would avoid
the powerful villages of Viswema, Kohima, Jotsuma and Konoma, and
enable me to attack the enemy in the rear. Half-way I was delayed by
receiving no letter from Mr. Carnegy, with whom I had to act in
concert, and this prevented me from reaching the scene of operations,
as I received the startling news that the Manipuri outpost of Kongal
Tannah on the borders of the Kubo valley had been attacked on December
14th by a party of men sent by the Rajah of Sumjok or Thoungdoot, and
eight men killed. This threw the whole population of Manipur into a
state of commotion, and the Maharajah begged me to return at once, and
I felt it my duty to do so, as my chief work was to protect Manipur and
its interests. [102]I therefore returned to Manipur on December
17th, leaving my party on the frontier, where they remained some time
longer, the Nagas being unwilling to submit; and making overtures
instead to the Maharajah Chandra Kirtee Singh. He sternly declined
their offers, and threatened that if they did not speedily yield to the
British authorities, he would send a large force to our aid.

The Naga Hills Campaign of that year had no further interest for
Manipur, and it had a sad ending for us, as Mr. Carnegy was accidently
shot by a sentry.

The “Kongal outrage,” as it was thenceforth called, was
so serious and so evidently premeditated, that a most thorough inquiry
was needed. It took some time to collect evidence as wounded men had to
be brought in, and it was the end of the month before I was able to
proceed to the spot. At last I started and crossed the Yoma range of
hills for the first time. What a lovely march it was and what an
anxious one, as I left my wife not at all well, and no one but an
ignorant and not very sweet-tempered English nurse to look after her.
However, duty must come first, and off I started, posting relays of
ponies on the way to enable me to return quickly when the work was
done. Thangal Major accompanied me.

The first part of our march lay across the valley, and we began the
ascent of the hills at a place called Ingorok. After a wearisome ascent
of 3500 feet and a more gradual one along the crest, we made a rapid
descent of 4000 feet to the Turet river, where we encamped. The river
runs at the bottom of an [103]exceedingly narrow valley, and the
ascent on both sides is one of the most wearisome I have ever made. On
a dark night lights on the hillside above, appear as stars from the bed
of the stream. The scenery was majestic, and the vegetation very fine.
The next day we commenced with a steep ascent of 2500 feet, and ended
with a descent of 3000 feet to the Maghung river. From the Maghung next
morning we started for Kongal Tannah, which we reached in good
time.

I carefully examined the place and saw the charred remains of the
murdered men, and many bullets still sticking in the stockade. The
evidence being complete, I turned homewards, and by travelling
incessantly reached Manipur next morning to find that my wife had
presented me with another son, the first pure European child born in
Manipur. It had been an anxious time for me, and I was thankful to find
both her and the baby well. We named the baby Arthur.

I sent a full report of the Kongal case to the Government of India,
and a demand for reparation was made at the Court of Mandalay, but it
was not backed up with sufficient vigour. The outrage was unprovoked,
and nothing less than the execution of the ringleaders, who were well
known, would have satisfied Manipur, and, indeed, the claims of
justice, but though the case dragged on for years, no redress was ever
given. I predicted at the time that failure to do justice would
eventually lead to underhand reprisals on the part of Manipur, as the
Durbar could not understand our Government tolerating an attack of this
kind on a protected state, and naturally ascribed our forbearance to
weakness. I shall have to refer to the case farther on. [104]

I have briefly described the old Residency which was
rented from the Heir Apparent. Money had been sanctioned for a new
Residency, to belong to the British Government, but there had been
squabbles for a long time between my predecessors and the Durbar
regarding a suitable site. Also such a building as was required could
only be built with the help of the Durbar whom it was advisable to
conciliate.

One of my predecessors wished to build on a small hill called
“Chinga,” about a mile from the palace. It was an admirable
site, and had the position of the Political Agent been similar to that
in other Indian States, it could not have been better. But in Manipur,
the representative of the Government of India was regarded by the
Maharajah as a powerful prop and support in case of his throne being
attacked, as was constantly the case in former years. On this ground
the Durbar objected that it was too far off; also that the place was
reported to be the residence of an evil spirit inimical to the Royal
family, so that it was not a convenient spot for the Maharajah to
[105]visit. So, after many acrimonious disputes, the
negotiation fell through.

Another Political Agent chose a site called Ching-mai-roong, which
in many ways was very satisfactory, and the Durbar reluctantly
consented to give it, but it was a mile and a half from the palace, and
therefore much out of the way. The question was still in abeyance when
I arrived. As soon as I had time, I discussed the matter with the
Durbar, and found the Maharajah much averse to my removal from the old
site. He said “Where you are now, I can call to you; but if you
go to a distance, I shall be cut off entirely.”

I quite saw the advisability of being on the spot, also in what I
may call the fashionable quarter of the town; and, as from a sanitary
point of view, the position was as good as any other, I agreed to stay,
on condition that all the squalid houses and slums in the neighbourhood
were cleared away, dirty tanks filled, and others deepened, and a fine
large space cleared and handed over to me. I further insisted that I
should have all the assistance necessary in building a suitable
Residency. My terms were agreed to, and the work put in hand. I
determined to have a building worthy of the representative of the
British Government, and sacrificed everything to suitable rooms, and
sound construction, so that it was not till the end of 1880 that it was
finished.

I was greatly indebted to my head clerk, Baboo Rusni Lall Coondoo,
who acted as clerk of the works. The result was a charming residence.
It was in the half-timber style of old English houses, modified to suit
the climate, all on one floor, but raised on a solid [106]brick foundation, which gave a lower storey
seven feet in height, thus keeping us high and dry, the house being
approached on four sides by flights of solid masonry steps. The lower
storey was built so as to be shot proof, as I designed it as a place of
retreat from stray shot for non-combatants, in the event of the
Residency being again, as it had been before, subjected to a cross-fire
from contending parties during one of the many revolutions so common to
Manipur. Little did I dream that folly, and incompetency would ever
lead to our being directly attacked!

The large compound, about sixteen acres in extent, was surrounded by
a mud breastwork and ditch, quite capable of being defended, if
necessary, and there were four entrances which I named respectively,
the Great Gate, the Milking Gate, my cows’-shed being close to
it, the Water Gate and the Kang-joop-kool Gate. I made a riding road
all round to exercise ponies, and besides making a splendid kitchen
garden, adding considerably to Colonel McCulloch’s, we laid out
flower beds, and had cool shady spots for the heat of the day. Deodars
and other exotic trees were imported by me and throve wonderfully. One
large sheet of water with an island in the centre was cleared,
deepened, and the banks repaired, and as I never allowed a bird to be
killed, it was covered in winter with water-fowls to the number of four
hundred and fifty or five hundred of every kind, from wild geese
downwards, and rare birds took refuge in the trees. In the north-east
corner of the compound were the lines for my escort, with a tank of the
purest drinking water, where formerly squalor [107]and
filth had held sway. Finally I covered most of the large trees with
beautiful orchids, so that in the season we had a blaze of colour. I
spared no expense on the garden, and we were rewarded. Altogether the
Residency and its grounds formed a beautiful and comfortable
resting-place.

The new building was also commodious and contained a handsome
Durbar-room for receptions 24 feet square, fine dining and
drawing-rooms, very airy and comfortable bedrooms, etc., with an office
for myself. The pantry was so arranged that cold draughts of air, so
great a drawback in Indian houses in cold weather, were avoided when
dinner was being brought in. The bedrooms had fireplaces, and the
sitting-rooms excellent stoves which in winter were very necessary. The
shot-proof rooms in the basement were not used, except one for a
storeroom, and the one under the verandah of the Durbar-room, used as a
sleeping place by the men of my guard.

The Great Gate was a picturesque half-timber structure, with rooms
on either side, one of which I built specially as a pneumonia hospital,
so it was designed with a view to maintaining an equable temperature,
pneumonia being a great scourge among newly arrived Hindoostani sepoys.
Not long after I left, it was diverted to other purposes, being
considered too good for a hospital!

“With the exception of the Residency, no house when I left
Manipur, was built of brick, partly from fear of earthquakes, partly on
account of expense. The ordinary houses of the people are huts with
wattle and daub or mud walls, those of greater folks [108]the
same, but on a larger scale. Every house has a verandah in front with
the main entrance leading from it, and a little side door on the north
side close to the west end, the houses invariably facing east. The
roofs are all of thatch, with the exception of the Rajah’s, which
was of corrugated iron. There were several temples built of brick
stuccoed over. One in the palace had an iron roof, another a gilded
one. I sent some models of these temples and several other buildings to
the Indian and Colonial Exhibition of 1886, every beam and rafter being
represented and made according to scale. The larger of the temples had
bells of a fine deep tone. Some of the approaches to the Rajah’s
dwelling-house were made of brick. Formerly the palace enclosure was
entered from the front by a quaint and picturesque old gateway, not
beautiful, but characteristic of Manipur; the old Rajah Chandra Kirtee
Singh substituted for it a tawdry and fantastic structure with a
corrugated iron roof, a structure without any merit, and quite out of
keeping with its surroundings. I remonstrated in vain; shoddy and
vulgar tastes had penetrated even to Manipur, and the picturesque old
building that spoke of bygone ages was doomed; but we who have
destroyed so many fine buildings, have little right to criticise.

“Close to the gateway is the place where the grand stand is
erected, from which the Rajah and his relations view the boat races on
the palace moat. I say ‘view,’ as in old age, a Rajah sits
there all the time; but in the prime of life he takes part in these
races, steering one of the boats himself. These boat races generally
take place in September when the moat is full, and are the great event
of the year. [109]Every one turns out to see them, the Ranees and
other female relations being on the opposite side of the moat, for in
Manipur there is no concealment of women, while the side next to the
road is thronged with spectators. The boatmen have a handsome dress
peculiar to the occasion, and the whole scene is highly interesting.
The boats are canoes hewn out of single trees of great size, and are
decorated with colour and carving.”1

The valley of Manipur is hot and steamy in the rainy season, and
Colonel McCulloch built a small hut at a place called Kang-joop-kool,
situated on a spur of the Kowpree range, to the west of the valley at a
height of 5170 feet above the sea. The distance from the capital was
fourteen miles, and four from the foot of the hills, and he lived there
for the whole of the rainy season, except for a few visits to the
capital. His successors till my time did not stay there much, but I
bought a small hut from my immediate predecessor, and pulled it down,
and built a new one far more commodious. I enclosed the land, and laid
out a small garden, and planted a wood of Khasia pines, the land being
quite bare, and in time it became a most charming place. It was
pleasant to leave the ceremonial life at the capital, where I never
walked out without a train of followers clad in scarlet liveries, and
settle down quietly at Kang-joop-kool where we could roam about the
hills as if we had been in England.

I spent little or no time in sporting, my eyes were never very good,
and before I came to Manipur had [110]become so deficient in what
oculists call power of “accommodation,” that, though
formerly a fairly good shot, I was then a bad one. In one way this was
an advantage, as all my interests were concentrated on my work, and
nothing of greater interest could have been found. Somehow or other,
there was subject for conversation with State officials and
non-officials, to last me from early morning till night, and fill up
every spare moment. My door was always open, and the guard at the great
gate had orders to let every one pass. All the minor gates were
unguarded.

No attempt was made by the Durbar, as in other native states, to
bribe the Residency servants, except in one notable case that happened
before my time. All negotiations were carried on with the Political
Agent direct, and the penurious Manipuris would have thought it waste
of money to bribe his servants. This was a very satisfactory state of
things, and probably saved many unpleasant complications.

In my dealings with the Durbar, I always tried to bear in mind that
I was the representative of the strong dealing with the weak, and so to
ignore little silly acts of self-assertion, such as a native court
loves to indulge in, and childish ebullitions, as unworthy of notice.
Whenever it became necessary for me to interfere, I did so with great
firmness, but always tried to carry the Maharajah and his ministers
with me, and make any desired reform appear to emanate from him. Except
on one occasion, I never experienced any rudeness from an official.

At the same time when any attempt was made to infringe on the rights
of the British Government or [111]its subjects, I spoke in very
unmistakable language. I think the Durbar gave me credit for good
intentions and appreciated my desire to work with them; of course they
tried to get all they could out of me, and it was a daily, but, on the
whole, friendly struggle between us. I knew perfectly well that to
exalt themselves, the Court party spoke of me behind my back in
disparaging terms, and boasted of what they could do, and of their
independence of the British Government, but I was quite satisfied that
they did not believe what they said, and that in all important matters
they deferred to me on every point, and were always coming to me to
help them out of difficulties. I kept in mind Colonel McCulloch’s
wise saying to the Rajah: “I don’t care what you say of me,
so long as you do as I tell you.” [112]

An incident occurred which might have caused some
trouble, while it served to show the violent disposition of Kotwal
Koireng, later known as the Senaputtee. One evening my Naga interpreter
reported to me that an Angami Naga of Kohima had been cruelly assaulted
by that prince, while he was passing along the road to the east of the
palace enclosure. Soon after the man was brought in to me, and an
examination by my native doctor proved that he was suffering from a
severe contusion above the right eye, which might or might not prove
fatal. Now, strictly speaking, the man was not a British subject, but
some day or other he was sure to be one, and we had assumed an
indefinite control over his people. This made me feel that passing over
the offence as one not concerning us, would be to lose prestige with
Manipur, as well as with the Naga tribes, who ought, I felt, to be
assured of my sympathy. I therefore at once sent a strong remonstrance
to the Durbar, claiming the man as a British subject, and demanding
prompt recognition of, and [113]reparation for the outrage. On
further investigation it appeared, that the man was with some of his
friends carrying a large joint of beef on his shoulder just as Kotwal
Koireng was passing, and a few drops of blood fell on the ground; this
enraged the Prince so much that he at once attacked the man with a
thick stick which he carried, and beat him till he was almost
senseless. There was no real provocation, as eating the flesh of cows
that had died a natural death was always allowed, and any dead cow was
at once handed over to the Nagas and other hill-tribes; it was simply
an outburst of temper. The result was, that until the man’s
recovery was assured, Kotwal was held in a species of arrest; then he
was released and sent with the Jubraj to make an apology to me; the man
received a sum of money, and the affair ended amicably. I did not often
come across the princes, though sometimes I met them out riding, and
then we were very friendly. Once when I was walking out, I met one of
the younger ones riding in state on an elephant, he forgot to make the
usual salutation. This was reported to the Maharajah, who sent him with
Thangal Major to apologize.

The Manipuris paid very little revenue in money, and none in direct
taxes. The land all belonged to the Rajah, and every holding paid a
small quantity of rice each year. The chief payment was in personal
service. This system known by the name of “Lalloop,” and by
us often miscalled “forced labour,” was much the same as
formerly existed in Assam under its Ahom Rajahs. According to it, each
man in the country was bound to render ten [114]days’ service out of every forty, to the
Rajah, and it extended to every class in the community. Women were
naturally exempt, but, among men, the blacksmith, goldsmith,
carpenters, etc., pursued their different crafts in the Rajah’s
workshops for the stated time, while the bulk of the population, the
field workers, served as soldiers, and made roads or dug canals, in
fact executed great public works for the benefit of the state.

The system was a good one, and when not carried to excess, pressed
heavily on nobody. It was especially adapted to a poor state sparsely
populated. In such a state, under ordinary circumstances, where the
amount of revenue is small, and the rate of wages often comparatively
high, it is next door to impossible to carry out many much-needed
public works by payment. On the other hand, every man in India who
lives by cultivation, has much spare time on his hands, and the
“Lalloop” system very profitably utilises this, and for the
benefit of the community at large. I never heard of it being complained
of as a hardship. The system in Assam led to the completion of many
useful and magnificent public works. High embanked roads were made
throughout the country, and large tanks, lakes, appropriately termed
“seas,” were excavated under this arrangement. Many of the
great works of former ages in other parts of India are due to something
of the same kind.

It was a sad mistake giving up the system in Assam, without
retaining the right of the state to a certain number of days’
labour on the roads every year, as is the custom to this [115]day,
I believe, in Canada, Ceylon, and other countries.

Unfortunately, our so-called statesmen are carried away by false
ideas of humanitarianism, and a desire to pose in every way as the
exponents of civilisation, that is the last fad that is uppermost, and
the experience of ages and the real good of primitive people are often
sacrificed to this ignis fatuus. I hear that
“Lalloop” has been abolished in Manipur since we took the
state in charge. We may live to regret it; the unfortunate puppet Rajah
certainly will. Why cannot we leave well alone, and attack the real
evils of India that remain still unredressed, evils that to hear of
them, would make the hair of any decent thinking man stand on end? We
have still to learn that the native system has much good in it, much to
recommend it, and that it is in many cases the natural outgrowth of the
requirements of the people.

Manipur in old days required very little to make it a model native
state of a unique type, and its people the happiest of the happy. All
it required was a better administration of justice, and a few smaller
reforms, also more enlightened fiscal regulations such as many European
states have not yet attained. Given these, no one would have wished for
more. No one asked for high pay; enough to live on, and the system of
rewards already in force from time immemorial, satisfied all
aspirations. The people were contented and happy, and it should have
been our aim and object to keep them and leave them so. Shall we have
accomplished this desirable object when we hand over the state to its
future [116]ruler, that is if it ever does again come under
a Native Government?

One of the standing grievances of the Government of India against
Manipur, was the levying of customs duties on all articles imported
into the state, and on some articles exported to British territory.
These duties supplied almost the only money revenue the Maharajah had,
and also to some extent protected Manipuri industries. During my tenure
of office I did something towards regulating the system, and in the
case of articles not produced in Manipur, induced the Durbar to lower
the rates. In the case of cloths, however, I strongly advocated the
duties being kept up, where, as in the case of coarse cloths the
imports entered into competition with the excellent manufactures of
Manipur, which I wished to see preserved in all their integrity.

Our system of free trade has done much to injure useful trades in
India, and none more than those in cotton goods. Among an ignorant
people the incentives of cheapness and outward appearance are so great,
that the sudden importation of cheap and inferior foreign goods may
kill out an ancient art, and the people only discover when too late
what they have lost, and then lament having abandoned the really good
for the attractive flimsy article. Thus, in many parts of India, the
beautiful chintzes which were common thirty-five years ago, are now
nowhere to be had, and every year sees the decay of some branch of
manufacture. This was very noticeable in Assam, and the arts there lost
were only kept up in Manipur, owing to its having a Native Court where
tradition and taste encouraged [117]them. Soon after I went to
Manipur, I found that the valley had almost been drained of ponies by
their exportation to Cachar. The ministers consulted me about it, and I
gave my consent to the trade being stopped, and this was done for years
until the numbers had again increased.

On the whole the duties on almost every article were lowered during
my term of office, and the imports largely increased. Indeed, but for
the cumbersome system of levying the custom charges, they would have
been no grievance at all; and as it was they hardly added anything to
the cost of the articles when sold in Manipur, many of which could be
bought for little more than the price paid in Cachar, plus the charge
for carriage.

Slavery of a mild form existed in Manipur, the slaves being
hereditary ones, or people, and the descendants of people who had sold
themselves for debt, their services being pledged as interest for the
debt. For instance a Naga (a very common case), marries a girl of
another Naga village, thereby incurring a debt of forty rupees to the
father, that being the price of a Naga bride. The man not being able to
pay, his father-in-law says, “Sell yourself, and pay me.”
This is done, and the man pays the forty rupees and has to work for his
master till he can pay the debt, something being sometimes allowed for
subsistence, or they agree upon a monthly payment, which if not paid is
added to the principal. The wife probably works and supports the
family, and, if the creditor is a fairly good fellow, things go
smoothly, and the debtor never attempts to fulfil his obligations more
than he can help. The law allows [118]a man to transfer his
services to any one who will take up the debt. Here and there great
abuses crop up, and the master takes advantage of the corrupt courts to
bind the slave more and more securely in the chains of debt, and then
every effort is made to escape. I often paid the debts of slaves who
came to me for help and let them work off the money. Once a little girl
named Nowbee came to me. Her mother had sold her to pay her
father’s funeral expenses. She stayed with us, working in the
nursery for years, and when I left I forgave her the remainder of her
debt which was unpaid, as, of course, I did with all the others. I once
offered to redeem the mother, who, in turn, had sold herself, but the
old woman declined, as some one told her that we should take her to
England, and she was afraid to go. Sometimes cases of very cruel
ill-treatment came before me, or cases where people had been made
slaves contrary to the laws, and then I made a strong remonstrance to
the Durbar, and insisted on justice. Once or twice I took the
complainants under my protection immediately, and insisted on keeping
them. One day a young man and a small boy came to me for protection:
the case was a bad one, and I at once took them into my service as the
best way of settling the difficulty, the young man as a gardener and
the boy to work in the kitchen and wait at table; both were named
“Chowba,” i.e. big; a name as common out there as
John in England. We gave little Chowba clothes, and he stood behind my
wife’s chair at dinner, the first evening crying bitterly from
fear. However, he learned his work, and became an excellent servant.
When I went on [119]leave in 1882, I offered to place him with my
locum tenens, but the boy said, “No, sahib, you have been
kind to me; I have broken your things and you have threatened to beat
me, but have never done so; you have threatened to cut my pay, but have
never done so; I will never serve any one but you!” The poor boy
kept his word; he preferred hard toil, cutting wood and such-like work;
but unfortunately died before I returned.

Another bad case I remember, in which a woman complained to me that
her child had been stolen from her house while she was away. I ordered
the child to be brought to me; the poor little thing was only four
years old, and could hardly stand from having been made to walk a great
distance by the man who had stolen her, and whose only excuse was, that
her father, who was dead, owed him nine rupees. I gave her to her
mother, and insisted on the Durbar punishing him. The story was a sad
one. The father of the child, a debtor slave, had been told by his
master to leave his home and go with him, and the man in desperation
attempted to kill his wife and little girl, and then committed
suicide.

While in Manipur I did all I could to afford relief in individual
cases. It was a great abuse, but slavery in Manipur must not be put in
the same rank as slavery in Brazil, the West Indies, or Turkey and
Arabia. A thorough reform of the judicial system of Manipur would have
entirely taken the sting out of it. All the same, I wish I could have
abolished it.

My wife’s nurse very speedily left us, and we were left to
natives and did much better with them. [120]We always had three
or four Naga girls who did their work well in a rough-and-ready way.
Chowbee, Nembee, and Nowbee, just mentioned, were the best. Chowbee was
the wife of a Naga bearer named Lintoo, and Nembee afterwards married
our head bearer Horna. We engaged a tailor named Suleiman, brother of
Sooltan, one of our chuprassies, as a permanent servant, to do the
ordinary household sewing and mending. My two boys, Dick and Edward,
became very friendly with all the people, and were drilled daily by a
naick (corporal of my escort), and the good-natured sepoys used to
allow themselves to be drilled by the boys. One afternoon, I met these
two walking up the lines with my orderly. I asked what they were going
for, and they replied that the sepoys had not done their drill well
that day, and they were going to give them some more. Whenever a new
detachment came, the boys were formally introduced to the new native
officers and men. As they grew older they learned to ride, and rode out
morning and evening when I went for a walk.

As the Burmese difficulty did not show signs of decreasing, I went
out in February to Kongjang on the Yoma range, to reconnoitre and
select a place for a new stockade, if necessary. At three and a half
miles on my way, I passed Langthabal, the old capital of Ghumbeer
Singh, a pretty place where the cantonment of the Manipur Levy used to
be, and where Captain Gordon was buried under a tree. The ruined palace
lies nestling under a hill, on a spur of which is a magnificent fir
tree; behind the palace a garden run to waste and wood, with a few
[121]ponds, formed an admirable cover for ducks,
which I saw in abundance. After leaving Langthabal, we passed a place
called Leelong, the place of execution for members of the Royal family,
who are sewn up in sacks and drowned in the river. Farther on is a
great fishing weir, where a small lake discharges itself into a river.
At last, after a march of thirty miles, I halted at Pullel, a village
of low caste Manipuris. Next morning we ascended the Yoma range,
reaching Aimole, a village picturesquely situated and inhabited by a
tribe of that name. The head of the village was an intelligent old man,
who remembered Captain Gordon and talked a good deal about him. I gave
him a coat, and the girls and boys of the village got up a dance for my
benefit, the most graceful and modest that I ever saw among a wild
people.

I reached Kongjang in the afternoon, a place very picturesquely
situated, with a fine view of the valley of the Lokchao and the hills
beyond, and of a portion of the Kubo valley. I selected a spot for a
stockade, and, after reconnoitring in the neighbourhood, marched back
next day to Pullel, and thence to Manipur, again passing Langthabal. I
never saw Langthabal without regretting its abandonment, there is
something very charming about the situation, and it is nearer to
Bissenpore on the Cachar road than Imphal; also a few miles nearer the
Kubo valley. It has always had the reputation of being very healthy,
which is not invariably the case with Imphal, and is, if anything, a
little cooler. Before leaving in 1886, I strongly recommended it as the
site for a cantonment, in the event of troops being stationed in the
valley. My recommendation was adopted. [122]

We had not been dull in the Naga Hills, still less in
Manipur, for I was always interested in native life. Something to vary
one’s work was constantly occurring.

One day some men in Shan costume came and asked me for a pass to
enter Burmah. I inquired who they were, and one said he was the
Chowmengti Gohain. I remembered him fourteen years before, at Sudya, in
Assam, when he was but a boy. He was the son of a Khampti chief, long
since dead. I asked him if he remembered me, and after a minute or two,
he did. I managed to keep up a conversation in Singpho, though I had
not spoken it for many years, and have never done so since. He was
going to Mandalay to marry a daughter to the king.

Time went on fairly smoothly. I was occupied all day long, and used
to talk for hours to the ministers and others who came to see me, while
my wife looked after the house and children, and taught the Naga girls
to knit and sew, and other useful things. When the weather grew too
hot, we [123]migrated to Kang-joop-kool, and enjoyed the
change. About this time much dissatisfaction was caused by speculators
in the capital hoarding “sel,” the coin of the country. The
usual rate at which they were exchanged for the rupee was 480 = 1
rupee, but there were occasional fluctuations; large sums were paid in
rupees, but the amount was always reckoned in sel. Consequently, when
the latter were hoarded, a man having only rupees in his possession
found their purchasing power greatly diminished. On this occasion,
almost all the “sel” in circulation were collected in a few
hands and a panic was the result; the bazaar was in an uproar, and
business ceased. I spoke to the Maharajah on the subject, and
represented the very great injury to the country that would inevitably
result if immediate steps were not taken to rectify the mischief done,
and urged him to issue a large quantity of sel. This he did, and the
exchange which had gone down to 240, at once rose to 400, and at this
rate he fixed it, and so it remained all the time I was in Manipur.

Our Naga boys, though intelligent and willing to learn, were
careless and often worse, as in playing and fighting with each other,
they broke much crockery, and the loss was serious, as it took months
to replace it. I threatened in vain, as I could not bear to make the
poor lads pay. At last, in desperation, I hit upon a remedy; I said
that the next time anything was broken, the breaker should pound it up
to a fine powder with a pestle and mortar, and mix it with water and
drink it. This threat had some effect, but at last one day the old cook
brought up Murumboo, our musalchee (i.e.
dishwasher) with [124]a vegetable dish in pieces, broken, as
usual, in play. I said very severely, “Very well, grind it to
powder in a pestle and mortar, and then you shall mix it with water and
drink it.” So Murumboo sat for hours in the sun, pounding away.
At last it was reduced to a fine powder, and I told him to mix it with
water and drink it in my presence. Of course, what I had foreseen,
happened, all the other servants headed by the old cook, Horna and
Sultan, came up and humbly begged that he might be forgiven this time,
a request which I graciously acceded to, and Murumboo went away very
penitent. The result was excellent, as for the future I hardly lost any
crockery. Poor Murumboo; he served me well, and became an excellent
cook and got a good place when I finally left.

The summer and autumn passed quietly, except for a rumour that human
sacrifices had been offered up, though no actual complaint was made. I
believe the report to have been true. I had seen enough of countries
where within a few years they had been undoubtedly offered, to know
that such things did occasionally happen among ignorant people, where
appeasing evil spirits is a common custom. I took such precautions as
effectually prevented any recurrence of this horrible practice.

One reform carried out was in our postal arrangements. When I first
arrived, the post, which came in every other day, frequently took eight
days to reach us from Cachar, a distance of 132 miles. By altering the
system, I reduced it to a maximum of four days, though it often came
more quickly, and by constantly hammering at all concerned, I achieved
[125]the triumph of a daily post delivered in less
than two days from Cachar before I left.

Once when riding between Manipur and Kang-joop-kool, I saw, in
passing a small bazaar, a woman selling apricots. I made inquiries
about them, and was told that they had existed from time immemorial,
but that they would give me a violent internal pain if I ate them. I
did try them, raw and cooked, but the statement was quite true, nothing
made them agreeable, and I did suffer pain. They were probably
introduced from China in early days, and having been neglected had
degenerated. They blossom in January. I tried Himalayan apricots, and
the trees throve wonderfully, but could never, while I was in Manipur,
learn to blossom at the right time. They blossomed as they were
accustomed to do in their native country, that is three months too
late, and the fruit was destroyed by the early rains. Perhaps they have
by this time adapted themselves to the climate. I introduced Kabulee
mulberries and they did well, but those in the valley grew long like
the Indian variety, while those at Kang-joop-kool were shaped like the
common European mulberry, and very good to eat.

Another time when out riding in the evening, I witnessed a strange
sight. I was near Kooak Kaithel when I saw a large number of sparrows
assembled on the road in front, and perched on a clump of bamboos near;
others were constantly joining them, and numbers were flying to the
spot from all sides. They first joined the assemblage on the road, and
then flew up to and around the bamboos, which were already covered with
the first-comers. [126]I asked one of my mounted orderlies what it
all meant. He said that a snake was concealed among the bamboos, and
that the birds were come to see him and try and drive him out. Whatever
be the explanation, it was a very interesting sight, and I never at any
time saw such a large number of small birds together. Once when riding
along this same road, but farther on, in company with Thangal Major, I
happened to see a deep hole freshly dug in the side of a hill,
apparently without any object. I asked him what it was dug for, and he
replied that it was probably some refugee returned to the land of his
ancestors, who had dug it, in search for treasure buried during the
Burmese invasion by a relation, who had left an exact description of
the spot as a guide to any of his descendants who might return. He said
that there were many cases of this kind. I used to hear the same story
many years ago in Assam where the truth was never questioned, and many
were the tumuli that bore the marks of having been opened by searchers
“for buried gold.” I never knew of an authentic case of the
kind in Manipur, but doubtless old Thangal could tell of many such;
possibly he had shared in the proceeds.

I have just related a story of birds attacking a snake, and I may as
well tell another story in which one of his tribe was the aggressor.
When returning from my cottage at Kang-joop-kool, after a day spent
there in October, I saw an enormous python poised up on the high
embanked road with its head erect, and body and tail in coils on the
slope, ready to spring on some young buffaloes grazing near; it must
have been at the lowest estimate thirty feet [127]long
and of proportionate thickness. I was too near, and riding too fast, to
stop my pony, so gave a loud shout, and urged him to speed, and the
snake turned itself back and fell with a crash into a morass by the
road side, and I saw no more of it. I spoke to Thangal Major about it,
and he told me that pythons were known to exist about the place where I
saw this. I once shot a young one on the Diphoo Panee river, near
Sudya, which measured nine feet, and a sepoy of my old regiment shot
one near Borpathar fifteen feet in length.

Several very deadly snakes abound in Manipur, notably the
“Tanglei” and the “Ophiophagus,” a terrible
looking creature, eight to twelve feet in length. No house is safe from
snakes, and in the old Residency one fell from the roof once in my
bedroom, from where a few minutes previously the baby’s
bassinette had hung, so the child had a narrow escape. I never dare let
the children play alone in the garden for fear of their being
bitten.

Kohima.

[Page 127.

The extreme loneliness of Manipur, and the necessity of leaving my
wife and children quite alone sometimes, made me very anxious to get
some trustworthy English nurse for her, but we quite failed in doing
so. In this emergency, one of her sisters volunteered to come out,
which was a great help and relief. As I had to go to Calcutta to see
the Viceroy in December, we asked her to meet us there. We left Manipur
on November 27th, 1878, and returned on January 23rd, bringing her with
us. Kohima was occupied by the Political Agent of the Naga Hills (Mr.
Damant), in November, and before leaving for Calcutta I had some
correspondence [128]with him, and, at his request, sent my
escort—then consisting of Cachar Frontier Police; men, for
service qualities in the hills, far superior to the Native Infantry I
had—to his assistance.

In Calcutta, I met Sir Steuart Bayley, who had been lately appointed
Chief Commissioner of Assam, and had interviews with the Viceroy, Lord
Lytton, and the Foreign Secretary, Mr. (now Sir Alfred) Lyall.

Early in 1879, there was some discontent on account of the dearness
of rice, owing to a deficient crop, but there was no real anxiety, as
the stock of rice in hand was sufficient. I remember that during that
time I was rather scandalised at hearing that the old Ranee had gone
off to Moirang on the Logtak lake for change of air, accompanied by a
retinue of over one thousand persons. Many people had been employed for
weeks past in building a little temporary town for their accommodation,
and all for five days’ stay. I remonstrated with Thangal Major at
this useless waste of resources at a time when food was scarce, and
told him that he ought to prevent such thoughtlessness. He told me, and
I believe sincerely, that he greatly regretted it, and promised to use
his influence to amend matters, but said what was perfectly true, that
if he gave good advice, there were plenty of people quite ready to
offer the reverse, and contradict his statements. I often thought what
an advantage it would have been, if we had insisted on all authority
being in the hands of one powerful minister responsible to us. Under a
strong man like Chandra Kirtee Singh there would have been some
difficulty in arranging it, but under [129]his weak, though
amiable and intelligent successor, Soor Chandra, it would have been
easy, and would have saved us one of the most painful and disgraceful
episodes in our history.

Almost every day brought some exciting news from the frontier. One
day, an incursion by Chussad Kukies on the Kubo side; another, an
outrage committed by Sookti Kukies. Then a little later a report that
the Muram Nagas were restless. All these reports came to me at once,
and I had to decide what was to be done. Occasionally an expedition was
the result, regarding the conduct of which I gave general instructions.
Sometimes late at night a minister came to me in a high state of
excitement at some outrage on the Burmese frontier, in which, of
course, every one, from the Court of Mandalay downwards, was said to be
implicated. Anything against Burmah was readily believed, and not
without reason, perhaps, judging from past history, and I had, on the
spur of the moment, to decide on the policy to be adopted, and calm
down and convince my impulsive visitor.

Manipur is a great place for athletics, and some fine wrestling is
to be seen there. Athletic sports are regularly held at stated periods,
sometimes for Manipuris, at other times for Nagas. At the last there
are races run by men, carrying heavy weights on their backs. At the
conclusion of these exhibitions of strength and skill, four Manipuris,
dressed in Naga costume, executed a Naga war dance. This I always
thought the most interesting part of the performance, showing as in
many other cases, the tacit acknowledgment of a connection with the
hill-tribes surrounding them. It always reminded me of the [130]same
connection between the Rajahs in the hill tracts of Orissa, Sumbulpore
and Chota Nagpore, and their aboriginal subjects. I am rather inclined
to believe that in the case of Manipur some of the customs point
distinctly to the Rajahs being descended from, or having been
originally installed by, the hill-tribes, as was notably the case in
Keonjhur one of the Cuttack Tributary Mehals. To this subject, however,
I have already referred.

During each cold season, I insisted on the Manipuri troops being put
through musketry practice with ball cartridge, and often attended for
hours together, with the Maharajah, to see how the men acquitted
themselves. Sometimes the firing went on all day, the targets being
erected at one end of the private polo ground in the palace, with a
mountain of rice straw in their rear to catch stray bullets. Sometimes
the bullets went through everything, and one evening, as my wife and
myself with the children, were taking our evening walk, we had ocular
demonstration of this, as a shot passed close to my second boy’s
(Edward) head. I spoke to Thangal Major about it, suggesting that the
pile of straw should be made thicker, but only elicited the reply,
“Of course, if you go in the line of fire, you must expect to be
shot.” This reminded me of my early days in Assam, when my old
regimental friend Ross shot another friend out snipe shooting. The
latter complained, but all the satisfaction he got from Ross was,
“Well, you must have been in the way.” [131]

The spring in Manipur is a charming time, the nights
are still cool, though the days are hot, and abundance of flowering
trees come into blossom; among them one that attains a considerable
size, called in Manipuri “Chinghow.” It has two kinds, one
with pink and the other white and pink flowers, Out in the hills are
wild pears and azaleas in abundance, and rhododendrons, while here and
there are beautiful orchids. The oak forests too are splendid with the
fresh young leaves, and every hill village has peach trees in flower,
so that it is a delightful season for marching, and one can be out from
morning till night. I took advantage of the fine weather, and early in
April again visited the Yoma range, and went along the road to
Jangapokee Tannah, as far as a place called Kombang, 4600 feet above
the sea. On my way there and back I halted at Haitoo-pokpee, 2600 feet
above the sea, where the thermometer at sunrise stood at 55 and 56
degrees respectively; but the day between, when I was at Kombang, it
was 67 degrees at sunrise, the additional elevation raising the
thermometer. [132]I noticed the phenomenon over and over again in
Manipur, and in the cold weather generally found the sunrise
temperature lower in the valley than in the hills. Upland valleys were
sometimes colder than that of Manipur, and now and then to the north I
found very great cold prevailing on high land, as at Mythephum. The day
temperature in the hills was invariably lower than that in the valley,
in short, it was more equable. The road to Kombang was pretty, but the
place not particularly so. The night I was there I heard the loud
crackling of a burning oak forest set on fire to clear the ground for
one crop. It is difficult to speak with patience of this
abominable system, which is gradually clearing the hills in Eastern
India, and destroying valuable timber, while it encourages nomadic
habits in the tribes.

Whenever I went on an expedition into the hills, besides the usual
Manipuri Guard in attendance, four or five officers or non-commissioned
officers were told off to accompany me. Jemadars Thamur Singh, Sowpa,
Sundha, Thŭt-tôt, and Thûrûng were those
generally sent, excellent men who never left me from morning till
night, on the hardest march. Many was the adventure we had together,
and any one of them could march fifty miles on end. They were well
known throughout the hill territory of Manipur. A bugler always formed
one of my party, and it was his duty to sound a lively quick march as
we approached our camp in the evening. Of course, he always got a
special reward from me on my return to headquarters.

One day the Maharajah invited me to attend a review of his regiment
of guards called the “Soor Pultun.” [133]I
went, and he asked me whether he should put them through their
manœuvres himself, or let one of his officers do it. Not wishing
him, as I thought, to expose his ignorance, I suggested the last; but,
to my surprise, he conducted the parade himself very creditably, giving
the word of command in English with great clearness. The men’s
marching was poor, and the step not free enough, but otherwise they did
well. They were fairly well up in the Light Infantry exercises of ten
years back, and their drill generally was a slight modification of that
of 1859. On this, as on most occasions, when an invitation was sent by
the Maharajah, it was conveyed by two or three officers of not lower
rank than that of subadar or captain, and generally by word of mouth.
If I was away in camp all communications were by letter, sometimes
accompanied by a verbal message.

On February 28th, 1879, we were gladdened by the birth of a little
daughter. Being a girl, her arrival did not cause as much excitement as
Arthur’s, but when she was old enough to be carried out in a
small litter, all the population turned out to see her, and passers-by
would sometimes offer her a flower. How interesting our daily walks
were. Turning to the left, after leaving our gate by the guard-house,
we passed along by the wide moat surrounding the palace, and in which
as has been said the great annual boat races were held. There, might be
seen women washing their babies by the waterside in wooden tubs, cut
out of a single block bought for the purpose. At every step, if in the
evening, we passed or were passed by gaily clad women carrying baskets
of goods to sell in the great bazaar, “Sena Kaithel,”
i.e., [134]Golden Bazaar, assembled opposite the great gate
of the palace, the picturesque structure already alluded to. In this
bazaar the women sat in long rows on raised banks of earth, without any
other covering in the rainy weather than large umbrellas. Here could be
bought cloth of all kinds, ornaments, rice, etc., fowls and vegetables.
Dogs were also sold for food. As a rule, articles of food other than
fowls, were more plentiful in the morning bazaar. Blind people and
other beggars would post themselves in different parts of the market,
and women as they passed would give them a handful of rice, or any
other article of food they possessed. Women are the great traders, and
many would walk miles in the morning, and buy things in the more
distant bazaars to sell again in the capital in the evening. It was not
considered etiquette for men too often to frequent the bazaars, and few
Manipuris did so, but crowds of hill-men were constantly to be seen
there, and it presented a very gay and animated scene, the contrast
between the snow-white garments of Manipuri men, the parti-coloured
petticoats of the women, and the many-coloured clothes of the hill-men
being very picturesque. Opposite the great gateway on the right-hand
side, Royal proclamations were posted up. There, too, in presence of
all the bazaar, offenders were flogged, generally with the utmost
severity. This was, I am sorry to say, rather an attractive spectacle
to foreigners. Going through the bazaar along a fine broad road, the
only masonry bridge in the country was seen crossing the river, and on
the opposite bank the road turned sharp to the left, and went off to
Cachar. Before crossing it, and to the left was a piece of [135]waste ground with a rather ill-looking tree in
it, under which men were executed. Opposite, and to the right of the
road, was the sight of the morning bazaar. Here I have seen boat-loads
of pine-apples landed, fruit that would have done credit to Covent
Garden.

Between the Residency grounds, the “Sena Kaithel” and
the great road, was the famous polo ground, where the best play in the
world might be seen. There was a grand stand for the Royal family on
the western side, and one for myself on the north. Sunday evening was
the favourite day, and then the princes appeared, and in earlier days
the Maharajah. In my time one of the Maharajah’s sons, Pucca
Sena, and the artillery major, were the champion players. In Manipur,
every man who can muster a pony plays, and every boy who cannot, plays
on foot.

But to continue our walk. Passing the bazaar, we still skirt the
palace, meeting fresh groups and turning sharp round at one of the
angles of the moat, here covered with water lilies, come upon an
exceedingly picturesque temple once shaded with a peepul tree
(Ficus religiosa); this tree was torn off by
the great earthquake of June 30th, 1880. Afterwards taking two turns to
the right, and one to the left, and crossing a most dangerous-looking
bamboo bridge, we came upon a piece of woodland on the opposite bank of
the stream. This is the “Mah Wathee,” a bit of forest left
as it originally was for the wood spirits. It is now filled with
monkeys, which are great favourites with my children who have brought
rice for them which causes great excitement. But it is soon bedtime for
the young [136]monkeys, and the river being deep, they spring
on to the backs of their mothers who swim across with them in the most
human fashion. Saying good-night to the monkeys, we go homewards,
passing Moirang Khung, a tumulus said to be the site of a battle
between the Mungang and Moirang tribes; to this day a Moirang avoids
it. We pass a couple of boys riding jauntily on one pony, determined to
get as much pleasure out of life as they can. Finally, we reach home in
time for a game with the children, and dinner.

I have alluded to the high esteem in which the game of polo was held
in this, its native home, and of the splendid play that could be seen
on Sundays. I never played myself, much as I should have enjoyed it.
Had I been a highly experienced player, able to contend with the best
in Manipur, I might have done so; but I did not think I was justified,
holding the important position I did, in running the risk of being
hustled and jostled by any one with whom I played: men whom I was bound
to keep at arm’s length. Had I done so I should have lost
influence. I could not be hail-fellow-well-met, and though talking
freely with all, I at once checked all disposition to familiarity, and
people rarely attempted it.

Colonel McCulloch, it is true played, but he began life in Manipur
as an Assistant Political Agent, and also did not succeed to office as
I did, when our prestige had dwindled down to nothing.

In September 1879, hearing that Sir Steuart Bayley, Chief
Commissioner and Acting Lieut.-Governor of Bengal, was about to visit
Cachar, I went there to see him, performing the double journey
[137]including a night there, in less than seven
days. It was the first time I had made the march in the rainy season,
and I was greatly struck by the extreme beauty of the scenery which was
much enhanced by the number of waterfalls, that a month later would
have been dry. The masses of clouds and the clearness of the air when
rain was not falling, added greatly to the effect, and I enjoyed the
journey till I got to the low-lying land. There the mud, slush, and
great heat were unpleasant. It was very satisfactory to be able to
discuss the affairs of Manipur with the Chief Commissioner, as though I
was not then directly under him, I was from my position very dependent
on him, and was anxious to hear his views on many subjects.
[138]

Manipur professed to follow the old Hindoo laws, and
accordingly no woman was ever put to death, or to very severe
punishment. When one was convicted of any heinous or disgraceful
offence she was exposed on a high platform in every bazaar in the
country, stripped to the waist, round which a rope, one end of which
was held by her guard, was tied and her breasts painted red. A crier at
the same time proclaimed her crime, and with a loud voice called out
from time to time, “Come and look at this naughty
woman!”

Exposure on a platform was also a punishment inflicted occasionally
on male offenders. Sometimes it was followed by death. Once I saved a
man from this part of the sentence, his crime being one for which our
law would not have exacted so severe a penalty. Fortunately, I heard in
time, and a message to the Maharajah in courteous, but unmistakable
terms, brought about a remission of the capital portion. The ministers
generally consulted me before carrying out sentence of death. Once in a
[139]case of murder by a Kuki they asked my opinion,
so I requested them to send the man to me that I might examine him
myself. This was done, and as he confessed openly to being guilty, I
told them they might execute him, and as an after-thought said
“How shall you put him to death?” Bularam Singh replied,
“According to the custom of Manipur, in the way in which he
committed the murder. As he split his victim’s head open with an
axe so will his head be split open.” I said “I have no
objection in this case on the score of humanity, but it is not a pretty
mode of execution; some day there will be a case accompanied by
circumstances of cruelty, when I shall be obliged to interfere; so take
my advice, and on this occasion and all future ones, adopt decapitation
as the mode of carrying out a death sentence. You can do it now with a
good grace, and without any apparent interference on my part to offend
your dignity.” Old Bularam Singh said, “Oh no, the laws of
Manipur are unalterable, we cannot change; we must do as we have always
done.” I said, “Nonsense, my old friend, go with Chumder
Singh (my native secretary and interpreter) and give my kind message to
the Maharajah, and say what I advise, as his friend.” In
half-an-hour Chumder Singh returned with an assurance that my advice
was accepted, and from that time decapitation was the form of capital
punishment adopted.

I never knew a case of torture being employed, but otherwise the
laws were carried out with severity. Ghumbeer Singh (reigned
1825–34) occasionally tore out an offender’s eyes, but such
things had been forgotten in the days of his son, and [140]though the Government was strong, probably there
were fewer acts of cruelty than in most native states. Once when
Ghumbeer Singh had lately introduced tame geese into the country; he
gave two to a Brahmin to take care of. It was reported that a goose was
dead. “Tell the Brahmin to eat it,” said the indignant
Rajah. The severity of such an order to a Hindoo will be appreciated,
by any one knowing what loss of caste entails. Ghumbeer Singh’s
orders were always implicitly obeyed, so I am afraid that the sentence
was carried into effect.

The army consisted of about 5000 men at the outside, in eight
regiments of infantry and an artillery corps. The famous cavalry was a
thing of the past, and many of the infantry were quite unacquainted
with drill. There were eight three-pounder brass guns, and two
seven-pounder mountain guns given as a reward for services in the Naga
Hills, one of which did admirable service in the Burmese war. Most of
the infantry were armed with smooth-bore muskets, some being of the
Enfield pattern. Besides the above, there were about 1000 to 12,000
Kuki Irregulars. A Manipuri military expedition was a strange sight,
the men besides their arms and ammunition carrying their spare clothes,
cooking vessels, food, etc., on their backs. All the same, they could
make long and tiring marches day after day on poor fare and without a
complaint, and at the end of a hard day would hut themselves and
fortify their position with great skill, however great the fatigue they
had undergone. It was a standing rule that in an enemy’s country
a small force should always stockade itself, and a Manipuri army well
commanded [141]was then able to hold its own against a sudden
attack. On their return from a successful expedition the troops were
greatly honoured, and the general in command accorded a kind of
triumph, and it was an interesting sight to see the long thin line of
picturesque and often gaily-clad troops, regulars and irregulars
winding their way through the streets and groves of the capital bearing
with them spoils and trophies gained in war. Here a party headed by
banners, there some Kukis beating small gongs and chanting in a
monotonous tone. Finally, after marching round two sides of the palace,
they enter by the great gate, pass between the Chinese walls, and again
between the two lions (so called), and being received by the Maharajah
at the Gate of Triumph, their General throws himself at his feet and
receives his chief’s benediction, the greatest reward that he can
have.

I realised from the first that it would be an immense advantage to
reconstitute the Manipur Levy, and keep up a permanent force of 800 men
under my direct orders, properly paid, armed, clothed and disciplined.
I foresaw that a war with Burmah was a mere question of time, and
wished to have a force ready, so as to enable the British Government to
act with effect at a moment’s notice through Manipur, on the
outbreak of hostilities. Regular troops eat no more than irregular, and
are ten times as valuable. My plan was to have 800 men enlisted, of
whom 200 would have come on duty in rotation, according to the Manipur
system, all being liable to assemble at a moment’s notice. Thus a
splendid battalion of hardy men could have been formed, [142]with
which I could have marched to Mandalay. Such a force would have been
absolutely invaluable when the war broke out in 1885, men able to stand
the climate, march, fight, row boats, dig, build stockades, in fact do
all that the best men could be called upon to do. However, to my great
disappointment, the idea did not commend itself to Government, and I
never ceased to regret it. I often later on thought of the lives and
money that might have been saved in 1885–86 had we been better
prepared, the cost of the proposed levy would have been trifling.

One part of the Manipuri system ever struck me as very admirable,
and I tried always to encourage it; that was the system of rewarding
services by honorary distinctions. The permission to wear a peculiar
kind of turban, coat, or feather, or to assume a certain title was more
valued than any money reward, and men would exert themselves for years
for the coveted distinction. It is charming to see such simple tastes
and to aspire no higher than to do one’s duty and earn the
approval of our fellow-creatures.

One day the two ministers Thangal Major and Bularam Singh came to see
me, accompanied by old Rooma Singh Major. They looked rather uneasy,
and I suspected something was coming out. Presently Thangal rose and
saluted me, and said, “The Maharajah has promoted us to be
generals.” I received the intelligence without any enthusiasm,
feeling assured that the act had been dictated by a desire to give them
a more high-sounding title than my military one, I being then only a
lieut.-colonel. It was in fact a piece of self-assertion. Any one
[143]understanding Asiatics will know what I mean,
and that I knew instinctively it was a move in the game against me
which I ought to check. I coldly replied that of course the Maharajah
would please himself, but that I loved old things, old names, and old
faces, and that I had so many pleasant associations with the old titles
that I could not bring myself to use the new ones, and should continue
to call them by the dear old name of Major. I then shook hands with
them most cordially and said good-bye, and they left rather
crestfallen, where they had hoped and intended to be triumphant. I may
as well tell the remainder of the story. Time after time was I begged
to address my three friends as “General,” but I was
inexorable, and the titles almost fell into disuse among the Manipuris
who had at first adopted them. Old Thangal once had a long talk about
it, and I said plainly, “I give nothing for nothing: some day
when you do something I shall address you as General.” Years
passed. I went on leave, and my locum tenens too good-naturedly
gave in, and addressed them as General, and even induced the Chief
Commissioner of the day to do likewise. When he wrote to me and told me
of it, I was naturally not very pleased, and mentioned it to an old
Indian friend, who said, “Well, you will have to do the same now
that the Chief Commissioner has.” However, I was not going to
swerve from my word. I returned to Manipur, and one of the ministers
met me on the boundary river. I again greeted him as “Major
Sahib,” and immediately the new titles again began to fall into
disuse. I told the Chief Commissioner my views when I next met him,
[144]and he approved, as I said I could not alter my
word.

Some time after this I again renewed efforts that I had long been
making for the establishment of an English school in Manipur. The
Durbar naturally objected; wisely from their point of view, they knew
as well as I did that the fact of their subjects learning English would
eventually mean a better administration of justice, and a gradual
sweeping away of abuses. I felt, however, that the time was come, and I
urged the question with great force, and one day said to the ministers,
“You have long wanted to be addressed as ‘General,’
and I told you that when you did something worthy of it I should do so.
Now the day that the Maharajah gives his consent to an English school
being established, I shall address you as General.” A few days
afterwards the Maharajah’s consent was brought. I immediately
stood up and shook hands most warmly with them, saying, “I thank
you cordially, Generals.” From that day the question was finally
set at rest, after years of longing on the part of the old fellows. We
had always understood each other, and they felt and respected the part
I had taken, and, I believe, valued their titles all the more from my
not having given in at once.

The Rath Jatra Festival, i.e., the drawing of the Car of
Juggernaut, is greatly honoured in Manipur, and every village has its
Rath (car). The Dewali, the feast of lights, is also faithfully kept.
Also the Rathwal, one of the feasts of Krishna, when there are many
dances, and an enormous bird is cleverly constructed of cloth with a
bamboo framework, and [145]a man inside, who struts about to
the delight of the children. The Koli Saturnalia is also duly
celebrated; the red powder “Abeer,” is thrown about amongst
those who can get it, and the burning of the temporary shrines lights
up the sky at night, and the holes where the poles stood, are a fertile
source of danger to ponies and pedestrians for weeks afterwards. The
Durga Poojah is kept, but is a feast of minor importance. At the Rath
Jatra the number of people drawn together was enormous, and the white
mass could be very distinctly seen from Kang-joop-kool with a
telescope, when the weather was clear. This view was sometimes obscured
by clouds, and often when staying there did I wake up to see the whole
of the valley filled up with fog, like a vast sea of cotton-wool,
stretching across to the Yoma range of hills many miles away.

Lunar rainbows were not uncommon in Manipur, and I often saw them
from Kang-joop-kool. Often, too, from thence have I seen a complete
solar rainbow, each end resting on the level surface of the valley.
Once, in riding to Sengmai on a misty morning, I saw a white rainbow
rising from the ground; a fine and weird sight it was.

The view over the valley at night from the surrounding hills was
sometimes wonderful. I never shall forget one night in the rainy
season, when the moon was shining brightly in the valley, but obscured
from my view by an intervening cloud; the bright reflection on the
watery plain sent out a long stream of light which brightened up the
glistening temples of the Capelat. This, and the dim hills in the
distance, [146]and the whole amphitheatre enclosed by them
lighted up faintly, while the dark threatening cloud hanging in air
between me and the rising moon, that had not yet apparently reached my
level (I was 2500 feet above the valley, and seemed to be looking down
on the moon), made a picture never to be forgotten. [147]

In November, 1878, Mr. Damant removed the headquarters
of the Naga Hills District from Samagudting to Kohima, and established
himself there with his party, in two stockades. He had a very ample
force for maintaining his position, but he had not sufficient to make
coercing a powerful village an easy task. He was an able man, with much
force of character, high-minded and upright, and had been greatly
respected in Manipur, where he acted as Political Agent for some months
after Dr. Brown’s death. He was also a scholar, and was perhaps
the only man of his generation in Assam capable of taking a
comprehensive view of the languages of the Eastern Frontier, and
searching out their origin. His premature death was an irreparable loss
to philology.

With all this he had not had sufficient experience with wild tribes
to be a fit match for the astute Nagas, and was constantly harassed by
the difficulty in the way of securing supplies, which ought to have
been arranged for him, in the early days of our [148]occupation of Samagudting, by making terms with
the Nagas as to providing food carriage. It was his misfortune that he
inherited an evil system. We had been forced into the hills by the
lawlessness of the Naga tribes, and we ought to have made them bear
their full share of the inconveniences attendant on our occupation,
instead of making our own people suffer.

Mr. Damant at first contemplated getting his supplies from Manipur,
through the Durbar, but they objected, it being their traditional
policy to prevent the export of rice for fear of famines, the distance
and cost of transport making the import, in case of scarcity, an
impossibility. I declined to put pressure, as I saw the reasonableness
of the Durbar argument, and I objected to force the hill population of
Manipur to spend their time in carrying heavy loads, to save the
turbulent and lazy Angamis. In September, 1879, however, I heard a
rumour from native sources that Mr. Damant was in great difficulties
and straits for want of provisions,1 and I wrote and told him
that if it were true, I would make every effort to send him some
supplies, and to help him in every way I could. I did not receive any
answer to this letter, and subsequently ascertained that it had never
reached him.

I knew the Angamis well, and was very anxious about Mr. Damant and
his party, and felt sure that some trouble was at hand.

About this time my wife’s health began to give me much
anxiety; she had one or two severe attacks of illness, and was much
reduced in strength. Who [149]that has not experienced it can
imagine the terrible, wearing anxiety of life on a distant frontier,
without adequate medical aid for those nearest and dearest to us. She
was better, though still very weak, when an event occurred that shook
the whole frontier.

Early in the morning of October 21st, I received a report from Mao
Tannah, the Manipuri outpost on the borders of the Naga Hills, to the
effect that a rumour had reached the officer there, that the Mozuma
Nagas had attacked either Kohima, or a party of our men somewhere else,
and had killed one hundred men. I have already mentioned my anxiety
about Mr. Damant’s position, and there was an air of authenticity
about the report which made me feel sure that some catastrophe had
occurred, and that he was in sore need. I said to Thangal Major,
“We will take off fifty per cent. for exaggeration, and even then
the garrison of Kohima will be so weakened that it is sure to be
attacked, and there will be a rising in the Naga Hills.”

I instantly took my resolve and detained my escort of the 34th B.I.,
which had just been relieved by a party of Frontier Police, and was
about to march for Cachar. I also applied to the Maharajah for nine
hundred Manipuris, and sufficient coolies to convey our baggage. He at
once promised them, and I made arrangements to march as soon as the men
were ready; but there was some delay, as the men had to be collected
from distant villages. The next morning, before sunrise, Thangal Major
came to see me, bringing two letters from Mr. Cawley, Assistant
Political Agent, Naga Hills, and District Superintendent of Police. The
letters told [150]me that Mr. Damant had been killed by the Konoma
men, and that he and the remainder were besieged in Kohima, and sorely
pressed by Nagas of several villages. Immediately after this, the
Maharajah himself came and placed his whole resources at my disposal,
and asked me what I would have. I said two thousand men, and he replied
that that was the number he himself thought necessary, and asked if he
should fire the usual five alarm guns, as a signal to call every
able-bodied man to the capital. I consented, and in ten minutes they
thundered forth their summons. Coolies to carry the loads were the
chief difficulty, as they, being hill-men, lived at a greater distance.
I also despatched a special messenger to Cachar to ask for more troops
and a doctor; and I made arrangements for assisting them on the road. I
despatched two hundred Manipuris by a difficult and little-frequented
path to Paplongmai (Kenoma2), to make a diversion in the
rear of Konoma, as, from all I heard, it seemed that the astute Mozuma
was not involved. I sent on a man I could trust to the Mozuma people,
to secure their neutrality. I also sent my Naga interpreter, Patakee,
to Kohima, to do his best to spread dissension amongst its seven
different clans and prevent their uniting against me. I gave him a
pony, and told him to ride it till it dropped under him, and then to
march on foot for his life, and promised him 200 rupees reward if he
could deliver a letter to Mr. Cawley before the place fell. In the
letter I begged Mr. Cawley to hold out to the last as I was marching to
his assistance. [151]

One day, about a year before, a fine young Naga of Viswema, a
powerful village of 1000 houses, a few miles beyond the frontier of
Manipur and right on our track, had come to me and asked me to take him
into my service. I did so, thinking he might be useful some day, and
now that the day had arrived, I sent him off to his people to win them
over, threatening to exterminate them if they opposed my march.

I had fifty men of the Cachar Police and thirty-four of the 34th
B.I., including two invalids, one of them a Naik, by name Buldeo
Doobey, who came out of hospital to go with me, as I wanted every man
who could shoulder a musket. For the same reason I enlisted a
volunteer, Narain Singh, a fine fellow, a Jât3 from
beyond Delhi, who had served in the 35th B.I., so he took a
breach-loader belonging to a sick man of the 34th. I shall refer to him
again. He carried one hundred and twenty rounds of ball cartridge on
his person, three times as much as the men of the 34th. I sent off my
combined escort with all the Manipuris who were ready under Thangal
Major, and stayed behind to collect and despatch supplies and write
official letters and send off telegrams to Sir Steuart Bayley, and on
the 23rd rode out, and caught up my men at Mayang Khang, forty miles
from Manipur. The rear-guard of the 34th had not come up when I went to
bed that night at 11 P.M.

I left my poor wife still very weak and I was thankful that she had
her good sister as a stay and support. Just before leaving, our
youngest boy [152]Arthur held out his arms to be taken. I paused
from my work for a moment and took him. It was the last time I saw him.
Sad as was my parting, I rode off in high spirits; who would not do so
when he feels that he may be privileged to do his country signal
service! Besides, I hoped to find all well when I returned.

We left Mayang Khang on October 24th and marched to Mythephum,
twenty miles along a terribly difficult mountain path, much overgrown
by jungle. It was all I could do to get the 34th along, as they were
completely knocked up. I had a pony which I lent for part of the way to
one of my invalids and so helped him on. I was continually obliged to
halt myself and wait for the stragglers, cheer them up, and then run to
the front again. Narain Singh was invaluable and seemed not to know
fatigue. We reached Mythephum after dark, but the rear-guard did not
arrive till next morning.

At Mythephum I mustered my forces. The Maharajah had sent the Jubraj
and Kotwal Koireng with me (little did I think of the fate in store for
them and for old Thangal4) and found that very few
Manipuris had arrived, and almost all of the force with me were so
knocked up that, to my intense disappointment, I had to make a halt. I
was too restless to sit still, so spent the day in reconnoitring the
country. In the evening I had an interview with Thangal Major and
afterwards with the Jubraj. [153]Old Thangal was for halting till
we could collect a large force as he said a large one was required, and
he begged me to halt for a few days. I finally pointed out that a
day’s halt might cause the annihilation of the garrison of
Kohima, and said that if the Manipuris were not ready to move, I would
go along with any of my own men who could march. I appealed to the
Jubraj to support me which he did,5 and for which I was ever
grateful, and we arranged to march next day. I found that the Nagas of
Manipur were infected with a rebellious spirit, and not entirely to be
depended on, and any vacillation on our part might have been fatal, and
would certainly have sealed the fate of Kohima.

We left Mythephum at daybreak on the 26th, and marched as hard as we
could, as I hoped to cover the forty miles to Kohima by nightfall. We
stopped to drink water at the Mao river, which we forded, and to
prevent men wasting time, I drew my revolver and threatened to shoot
any one who dawdled. We ascended the steep hillside, and passing
through one of the villages marched on to Khoijami, a village on the
English side of the border. We had been so long, owing to the extreme
badness of the roads, and the fatigue of the men, that we only reached
it at 3 P.M., so I reluctantly halted for the
night.

Here my emissary to Viswema joined me, and told me that he had
induced his fellow-villagers to be friendly, and that presents would be
sent. I sent him back to demand hostages, and the formal submission
[154]of the village, as otherwise I would attack them
on the morrow and spare no one. It was not a time for soft speeches,
and I heard rumours that we were to be opposed next day.

Late in the afternoon some Mao Nagas brought in seven Nepaulee
coolies who had escaped from Kohima the previous day, and wandered
through the jungle expecting every moment to be killed. I gave the Mao
men twenty rupees as a reward. The Nepaulees said that they had been
shut outside the gate of the stockade by mistake, and had hidden
themselves and so got away. They gave a deplorable account of affairs,
and said that there was no food, and that the ammunition was almost all
spent, and that two ladies were in the stockade, Mrs. Damant and Mrs.
Cawley. They stated that Mr. Damant was taken unawares and shot dead,
and fifty men killed on the spot, and that thirty ran away and hid in
the jungles, some saving their arms, others not. Each man had fifty
rounds of ball cartridge. Most of the rifles lost were breech-loaders.
The men told me that early that morning they had seen smoke rising from
Kohima, and thought it might have been burned.

All this made me very anxious, as the men said that Mr. Cawley was
treating for a safe passage to Samagudting. Late in the evening I heard
that a building inside the stockade had been burned by the Nagas, who
threw stones wrapped in burning cloth on to the thatched roofs. The
Nagas in arms were said to number six thousand, and they had erected a
stockade opposite ours from which they fired. The fugitives were in a
miserable state of semi-starvation, [155]and ashy pale from
terror, and seemed more dead than alive when they were brought to me.
We slept on our arms that night, at least such as could sleep, and rose
at 3 A.M. in case of an attack, that being a
favourite time for the Nagas to make one.

When ready, I addressed my men, telling them the danger of the
enterprise, but assuring them of its success, and urging them, in case
of my being killed or wounded, to leave me and push on to save the
garrison. I promised the Frontier Police that every man should be
promoted if we reached Kohima safely that night. This promise the
Government faithfully kept.

At sunrise I received two little slips of paper brought by two
Nepaulese coolies who had managed to escape, signed by Mr. Hinde, Extra
Assistant Commissioner, and hidden by them in their hair. On them was
written:—

and—

After getting these, I could not wait any longer, and, as the
Manipuris were not all ready, I started off at once with fifty of them
under an old officer, Eerungba Polla and sixty of my escort, all that
were able to make a rapid march, and Narain Singh. We carried with us
my camp Union Jack. [156]

I obtained hostages from Viswema and placed them under a guard with
orders to shoot them instantly, if we were attacked, and on our arrival
at the village we were well received. At Rigwema, as we afterwards
discovered, a force of Nagas was placed in ambush to attack us, but the
precautions we took prevented their doing so, and we passed on
unmolested, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the stockade at
Kohima still intact. A few miles farther, and on rounding the spur of a
hill, the stockade appeared in full view and we sounded our bugles
which were quickly answered by a flourish from Kohima.

We marched on with our standard flying, we reached the valley below,
we began the ascent of the last slope, and forming into as good order
as the ground would allow, we at last gained the summit and saw the
stockade, to save which, we had marched so far and so well, before us
at a distance of one hundred yards.

The garrison gave a loud cheer, which we answered, and numbers of
them poured out. Messrs. Cawley and Hinde grasped my hand, and others
of the garrison formed a line on either side of the gateway, and we
marched in between them. I recognised many old faces not seen since I
had left the Naga Hills in 1874, and warmly greeted them; especially
Mema Ram, a Subadar in the Frontier Police; Kurum Singh, and others. I
was told afterwards that when Mema Ram first heard that I was marching
to their relief, he said, “Oh, if Johnstone Sahib is coming we
are all right.”

I at once told the officers of the garrison that [157]there could be no divided authority, and that
they must consider themselves subject to my orders, to which they
agreed. I then saw the poor widowed Mrs. Damant, and Mrs. Cawley who
had behaved nobly during the siege. While talking to the last, one of
her two children asked for some water. Her mother said in a feeling
tone, “Yes, my dear, you can have some now.” Seldom have I
heard words that sounded more eloquent.

The Manipuris now began to pour in, in one long stream, and were
greeted by the garrison with effusion, and I gave them the site of a
stockade that had been destroyed by Mr. Cawley, in order to reduce the
space to be defended as much as possible, and told them to stockade
themselves, which they did at once. After arranging for the defence of
our position, I sent off a letter to my wife to say that I was safe,
and that Kohima had been relieved, and telegrams to the Chief
Commissioner, and Government of India, to be sent on at once to Cachar,
the nearest telegraph office, informing them of the good news.

Colonel Johnstone, the Princes of Manipur,
Thangal Major, the European Officers in Kohima, etc.

[Page 157.

It appeared from what Mr. Cawley told me, that on the 14th of
October, Mr. Damant had gone to Konoma from Jotsoma, to try and enforce
some demands he had made. He had been warned several times that the
Merema Clan of Konoma meant mischief, and several Nagas had implored
him not to go, and finding him deaf to their entreaties, begged him to
go through the friendly Semema Clan’s quarter of the village.
However, he insisted on having his own way, and went to the gate of the
Merema Clan at the top of a steep, narrow path. The [158]gate
was closed, and while demanding an entrance, he was shot dead. His men
were massed in rear of him, and a large number were at once shot down,
while the others took to flight. Some of the fugitives reached Kohima
that night, and Mr. Cawley at once, grasping the gravity of the
situation, pulled down one stockade, and dismantled the buildings as
already related, concentrating all his men in the other, and making it
as strong as possible. The neighbouring villages had already risen, and
were sending contingents to attack Kohima.

Mr. Cawley had just time to send a messenger to Mr. Hinde, the
extra-Assistant Commissioner at Woka, a distance of sixty-three miles,
ordering him to come in with the detachment of fifty police under him.
These orders Mr. Hinde most skilfully carried out, by marching only at
night, and on the 19th he reached Kohima, thus strengthening the
garrison and making it more able to hold its own, for the number of the
attacking party now greatly increased.

Most fortunately, owing to the zealous care of Major T. N. Walker,
44th R. L. Infantry, there were some rations in reserve for the troops,
which were shared with the non-combatants and police. These he had
insisted on being collected and stored up, when he paid a visit of
inspection to Kohima some months before. But for this small stock the
place could not have held out for two days, but must inevitably have
fallen, as all supplies were cut off during the progress of the siege.
The water was poisoned by having a human head thrown into it. The Nagas
fired at the stockade continually, but [159]made no regular
assault. They seemed to have tried picking off every man who showed
himself, and starving out the garrison. The quantity of jungle that had
been allowed to remain standing all round afforded them admirable
cover, and, as before stated, they erected another small stockade from
which to fire. This they constantly brought nearer and nearer by moving
the timbers.

At length, the garrison wearied out, entered into negotiations, and
agreed to surrender the stockade, if allowed a free passage to
Samagudting. This fatal arrangement would have been carried into effect
within an hour or two, had not my letter arrived assuring them of help.
What the result would have been no one who knows the Nagas can doubt;
545 headless and naked bodies would have been lying outside the
blockade. Five hundred stands of arms, and 250,000 rounds of ammunition
would have been in possession of the enemy, enough to keep the hills in
a blaze for three years, and to give employment to half-a-dozen
regiments during all that time, and to oblige an expenditure of a
million sterling, to say nothing of valuable lives.6

Throughout the siege, Mrs. Damant, and Mrs. Cawley had displayed
much heroism. The first undertook to look after the wounded, and went
to visit them daily, exposed to the enemy’s fire. Mrs. Cawley
took charge of the women and children of [160]the sepoys, and
looked after them, keeping them in a sheltered spot. The poor little
children could not understand the situation at all, or why it was that
the Nagas were firing.

The casualties would have been more numerous than they were, but
that the Nagas were careful of the cherished ammunition, and seldom
fired, unless pretty sure of hitting. All the same, the situation was a
very critical one, and not to be judged by people sitting quietly at
home by their firesides. It is certainly a very awful thing, after a
great disaster and massacre, to be shut up in a weak stockade built of
highly inflammable material, and surrounded by 6000 howling savages who
spare no one. In addition to that too, to have the water supply cut
off, and at most ten days’ full provision; for this was what it
amounted to. It must be also remembered that the non-combatants far
out-numbered the combatants, and that the two officers who undertook
the defence were both civilians. Anyhow, the view taken of it by the
defenders is shown by the fact that they were willing to surrender to
the enemy, rather than face the situation and its terrible uncertainty
any longer, as they were quite in doubt as to whether relief was coming
or whether their letters having miscarried they would be left to
perish.

Looking back, after a lapse of fifteen years, and calmly reviewing
the events connected with the siege of Kohima, I think I was right at
the time in describing the defence as a “noble one.”
[161]

Early on the morning of the 28th, I took out all the
men I could collect and set to work to clear away the jungle in the
neighbourhood of the stockade so as to give no covert to enemies. I
also did my utmost to collect supplies. Kohima, with its twelve hundred
houses, was able to give a little, and I sent to distant villages. I
also sent to the head-man of Konoma to ask for Mr. Damant’s body.
The man at once sent in the head, but said that the body had been
destroyed. A true statement, I have no doubt, as the head is all the
Nagas value, and the body would have been given up instantly had it
existed. His signet ring, and several other little articles were also
sent. The head was buried with due honours, the Manipuri chiefs drawing
up their men and saluting as the funeral procession passed. The Jubraj,
Soor Chandra Singh, spoke very feelingly on the subject.

The watercourse, which formerly supplied the garrison, had been
diverted, and the only other supply had been, as already stated,
poisoned by a head being thrown into it. My first business was to see
that the [162]water communication was restored, to every
one’s comfort. Some of my old acquaintances among the Nagas began
to come in, and there was a great disposition to be friendly.

The next day a sepoy of the 43rd, who had escaped the massacre and
lived in the jungle, was brought in by some friendly Nagas. He was
almost out of his mind, and nearly speechless from terror, and could
not walk, so was carried on the man’s back.

I made up my mind to attack Konoma as soon as I could, and the
people knowing this, tried negotiations with my Manipuri allies. So
great was the fear we inspired that at first I believe I could without
difficulty have imposed more severe terms than were obtained later on
after four months’ fighting. With Asiatics especially, everything
depends on the vigour with which an enterprise is pushed forward. The
Nagas never expecting an attack from the side of Manipur, were at first
paralysed. All the villages were without any but the most rudimentary
defences, in addition to those which nature had given them from their
position; not one of them could have stood against a well-directed
attack.

I was in the midst of my preparations when, on the 30th October,
Major (now Major-General) Evans, of the 43rd Assam Light Infantry,
arrived with two hundred men, who had come with him from Dibroogurh. I
also received a telegram saying that General Nation was coming up with
one thousand men and two mountain-guns, and might be expected on the
9th November. I was also given strict orders to engage in no active
operations till his arrival. These orders I at first disregarded,
feeling the urgent [163]necessity of instant action before the
Nagas had time to recover from their surprise. However, next day the
order was reiterated so strongly, and in the Chief Commissioner’s
name, that, believing that the Government had some special reason for
the order, I accepted it, much to my disappointment, as I felt the
urgent necessity of an immediate advance. Konoma was still unfortified,
and a few days would have sufficed to capture it, and place the Naga
Hills at our feet. As it was, the delay, not till November 9th, but
November 22nd, owing to defective transport arrangements, gave the
enemy time to recover, and when we tardily appeared before Konoma, we
found a scientifically defended fortress, whose capture cost us many
valuable lives. The order, it subsequently appeared, was not issued by
Sir Steuart Bayley,1 and was altogether due to a
misapprehension. [164]

As there was to be no immediate work, I urged Major Evans to take up
his post at Samagudting, where a magazine containing 200,000 rounds of
ammunition was very inefficiently guarded; he, however, left a
subaltern, Lieut. (now Captain) Barrett with me, as I wanted another
officer. On their way, some men of the 43rd had shot two Nagas, one a
relation of the chief of the Hepromah clan of Kohima, a most
unfortunate proceeding, and quite uncalled for, as the men were quietly
working in their fields. I was already sufficiently embarrassed by the
promises made by the garrison to the so-called friendly clans of
Kohima, to induce them to be neutral during the siege, and which I felt
bound to keep, and this additional complication added to my troubles.
People situated as the garrison were should make no promises except in
return for real help.

All this time troops and supplies came pouring in from Manipur in
one long thin stream, and the greatest efforts were made to collect
supplies on the spot. I also forced the unfriendly Chitonoma clan of
Kohima to surrender six rifles they had captured, and to pay a fine of
200 maunds of rice. We had been expecting a force of Kuki irregulars
from Manipur; these now arrived, and I had a talk with the chief, who
said: “Our great desire is to attack [165]that
village,” pointing to Kohima, “and to kill every man,
woman, and child in it!” He looked as if he meant it.

One day a cat was caught that had given great trouble stealing
provisions, etc., we all wanted to get rid of it, but Hindoos do not
like having cats killed, and I respected their prejudices when
possible, and there were many Hindoos about us, so I said, “I
won’t have it killed, unless some one wants to eat it.” A
Kuki soon came and asked to be allowed to make a dinner of it, and then
I gave my consent, and our scourge was removed. I once asked a sepoy of
my old regiment why they objected to killing cats. He said,
“People do say that if you kill a cat now you will have to give a
golden cat in exchange in the next world as a punishment, and where are
we to get one?”

To keep open communications, I established Manipuri posts in strong
stockades at all the principal villages on the road to the frontier,
and had daily posts from Manipur. To my great distress, I heard that my
youngest boy, Arthur, was ill, and my wife in much anxiety about him;
but I could not leave to help her.

Our forced inaction had, as I anticipated, been misinterpreted by
the Nagas. Some decisive action was much needed, and I attacked the
hostile Chitonoma clan of Kohima, and destroyed part of their village.
On the 10th, as a party of men were bringing in provisions from
Manipur, they had been attacked by some of the Chitonoma clan in the
valley below our position. I heard the firing, and ran out of the
stockade with a party to drive off the enemy. [166]

At the gate, a man who had just arrived, put a letter in my hand. I
read it anxiously, it told me that my child was dead. My wife and I had
chosen a spot at Kang-joop-kool where we wished to be buried in case
either of us died, and there she buried him.

We soon cleared out the Chitonoma men, and I found that with the
troops escorting the provisions was Dr. Campbell from Cachar, whose
arrival was very welcome. I remember in connection with him a striking
incident showing the courage of Manipuris in suffering. A man who had
been wounded in an encounter had to have an operation performed on his
arm. Dr. Campbell wanted to give him chloroform as it would be very
painful. But the man refused, saying, “I will not take anything
that intoxicates,” and at once held out his arm and submitted to
the knife without flinching!

Every day the delay in the commencement of active operations made
the Nagas more and more confident, and some vigorous action on our part
was absolutely necessary. I heard from spies that our Manipuri post at
Phesama was about to be attacked by the people of the village, who held
nightly converse with emissaries from Konoma. I therefore determined to
punish Phesama, which was not far from Kohima, and on November 11th, I
sent a party of Manipuris and Kukis who destroyed the village in a
night attack, and killed a large number of people. They brought in
twenty-one women and children as prisoners whom the Manipuris had saved
from the Kukis, who would have spared neither age nor sex had they gone
alone. [167]

The next day my old friend Captain Williamson arrived to act as my
assistant, I having been appointed Chief Political Officer with the
Field Force that was being formed. Having now a competent man to leave
in charge, I determined to go to Manipur for a few days, and marched to
Mythephum on the 13th, and rode thence on the 14th to Manipur,
accomplishing the whole distance of over 100 miles in thirty-one and a
half hours. I stayed one day in Manipur and then returned, reaching
Kohima on the 17th.

On November 20th, General Nation having arrived at Suchema, ten
miles from Kohima, Williamson and I left to join him. We were fired at
on the road, but got in safely and found all well and in good spirits.
The troops consisted of 43rd and 44th Assam Light Infantry and two
seven-pound mountain-guns under Lieut. Mansel, R.A. Lieut. (now Major)
Raban, R.E., was engineer-officer and Deputy Surgeon-General (now
Surgeon-General, C.B.) De Renzy was in charge of the Medical
Department. Major Cock, a well-known soldier and sportsman, was Brigade
Major.

On the 21st, the guns arrived on elephants, and feeling sure that no
proper carriage could have been provided for their transport, I had
taken the precaution to bring one hundred Kuki coolies to carry them.
The assault was to be next day. Mozuma remained neutral, and even gave
us a few coolies and guides.2 [168]

How well I remember the night of the 21st. Williamson and I dined
with the General and all the staff, and poor Cock, great on all
sporting subjects, told us in the most animated way, stories of whaling
adventures when he was on leave at the Cape. He warmed to his subject
and greatly interested us; he was a fine gaunt man of over six feet in
height, and great strength and ready for any enterprise; some of the
Mozuma Nagas knew him and liked him as they had, years before, been on
shooting expeditions with him in the Nowgong jungles. Besides this we
had a surgical address from Dr. De Renzy, who told us what to do if any
of us were wounded. How we all laughed over it, he joining us. I knew
we should have some hard fighting, but we all counted on carrying
everything before us with a rush, and who is there who expects to be
wounded? We are ready for it if it comes, but we all think that we are
to be the exception. It is as well that it is so.

We were under arms at 4.30 A.M. on the 22nd.
The first party consisting of two companies of the 43rd Assam Light
Infantry and twenty-eight Naga Hills Police, under Major Evans and
Lieut. Barrett, conducted by Captain Williamson, who knew the country,
were directed to proceed to the rear of Konoma and occupy the saddle
connecting the spur on which it is built with the main road, so as to
cut off the line of retreat.

At 7.30 A.M., the remaining portion of the
force [169]marched off. We all went together to the Mozuma
Hill, where Lieut. Raban, R.E., was detached with part of a rocket
battery, to take up a position on the hillside and open fire on Konoma,
simultaneously with the guns. A small force was left in Suchema, to
which, on my own responsibility, I added one hundred and ten Kuki
irregulars, as I thought it dangerously small for a place containing
all our stores and reserve ammunition. At the General’s request,
I had posted a force of two hundred men in a valley to intercept
fugitives, and cut them off from Jotsuma.

After leaving Lieut. Raban, we crossed the valley dividing Mozuma
and Konoma, and when half-way between the hills, Lieut. Ridgeway (now
Colonel Ridgeway, V.C.) was sent with a company of the 44th to skirmish
up to the Konoma hill. The main body with the guns then gradually
ascended to the Government Road. Just before reaching it, we found a
headless Aryan corpse in a stream, it was probably that of a sepoy of
the 43rd, who formed part of Mr. Damant’s ill-fated
expedition.

After going for a short distance along the road, we found a place up
which the guns could go, and a party of fifty men under Lieut.
Henderson, 44th Assam Light Infantry, was sent ahead to skirmish up the
hillside, the guns carried by my coolies following with the General and
his Staff, including myself. As we ascended the hill, Colonel Nuttall,
with the remainder of the 44th, exclusive of the gun escort, proceeded
along the road, crossing the small valley that divides the Konoma hill
from the ridge of the Basoma hill which we were ascending, a few
hundred [170]yards from where it joins the main valley, and
halted at the foot. After incredible labour, we succeeded in getting
the guns into position at about 1200 yards distance from the highest
point of Konoma, and at once opened fire, while Lieut. Raban did the
same with his rockets which, however, for the most part fell short over
the heads of Lieut. Ridgeway’s party, though once two struck the
village. On being signalled, Lieut. Raban withdrew his rockets and
joined us. Meanwhile, the guns had made little impression on the
people, and none on the stone forts of Konoma, but the 44th were
advancing gallantly to the attack up the steep ascent to the village, a
brisk fire being kept up on both sides.

At about 2.30, the position of the guns was changed, and they were
advanced to within eight hundred yards of the works, here one of my gun
coolies was wounded by a shot from the village. The change of position
had little effect, and Lieutenant Henderson’s party which had
skirmished along the hillside, effectually prevented the enemy from
evacuating his strong position.

At this time we saw a body of men on the ridge above Konoma, and a
gun and rocket fire was opened on them, but speedily stopped as the
regimental call of the 43rd sounding in the distance, followed by a
close observation with our glasses, led us to the conclusion that it
was the party with Captain Williamson and not the enemy who occupied
the point at which we had directed our fire. Subsequently it was
discovered that the stockade there had been captured and occupied by
the party of the 43rd. After firing a few shots from our new
[171]position, and imagining that the force under
Colonel Nuttall was in full possession of the hill we unlimbered, and,
crossing the small valley before mentioned, we followed Mr.
Damant’s path up the hill, entering the village by the gate where
he met his death. As we neared the place where we had last seen Colonel
Nuttall’s party, ominous sights met our eyes, dead bodies here
and there and men badly wounded, while sepoys left in charge of the
latter told us that the Nagas were still holding out in the upper
forts. After advancing a few paces further we had to pick our way over
ground studded with pangees,3 and covered with thorns and
bamboo and cane entanglements, exposed to the fire of the enemy, and
passing the bodies of several Nagas we ascended a kind of staircase,
and after again passing under the Naga fire climbed up a perpendicular stone wall and found
ourselves in a small tower, which, with the adjoining work, was held by
a small party of the 44th. I asked Colonel Nuttall where all his men
were, and he pointed to the handful around him and said, “These
are all.” The situation was indeed a desperate one, and I felt
that without some immediate action our power in the Naga Hills for the
moment trembled in the balance. The needed action was taken as the guns
had now arrived under a heavy fire, and they opened on the upper forts
at a distance of eighty to one hundred yards, Lieutenant Mansel and his
three European bombardiers pointing them, fully exposed to the fire of
the enemy. I strongly urged on the General the necessity of making an
attempt to dislodge him [172]before nightfall, and he was about
to lead out a party to the attack when it was deemed more prudent to
try the guns from another point first. After a series of rounds with
such heavy charges that the guns were upset at every shot, the order
for the assault was given, and we all rushed out in two parties, led by
nine officers, viz., General Nation, Colonel Nuttall, Major Cock, Major
Walker, Lieutenant Ridgeway, Lieutenant Raban, Lieutenant Boileau,
Lieutenant Forbes, and myself, with all the men we could collect. The
party I was with, which included the general, Colonel Nuttall, and
Major Cock, attempted to scale the front face of the fort, the other
the left, i.e., on our right. The right column of attack led by
Ridgeway and Forbes advanced splendidly; I seem to hear to this day
Ridgeway’s shout of “Chulleao,” i.e.,
“Come along,” to his men as he dashed to the front, and I
saw him mounting the parapet.

The Nagas met us with a heavy fire and showers of spears and stones.
One of the spears struck Forbes, and Ridgeway was badly wounded in the
left shoulder by a shot fired at ten paces, and Nir Beer Sai, a gallant
subadar, shot dead. My faithful orderly, Narain Singh, was also killed.
Unfortunately we had no force to support the assaulting parties and the
men began to retire. While this was doing on the right, our column, the
left, was scaling an almost perpendicular wall in front but
unsuccessfully, as those of us not killed were pushed back by showers
of falling stones and earth, and as we alighted at a lower level the
remnants of the right column who were retiring met us. I tried to
[173]rally them, but I was a stranger to them and it
was no use. Lieutenant Raban was equally unsuccessful, the men had
acted gallantly, but our party was too small, and as I had before
predicted the fire was concentrated on the European officers. Major
Cock walked back leisurely to get under cover, and just before he
reached it turned round to take a parting shot. I saw him thus far, and
immediately after heard that he had been shot. Seeing that our only
chance of safety lay in a retreat, I shouted to Mansel to open an
artillery fire over our heads which he did, this saved us. In another
minute, the general, Colonel Nuttall, myself and five sepoys were the
only men left. I suggested to the former that we had better go too and
retire, which we did over the embers of a burning house.

As I retired with the General we found Major Cock mortally wounded,
laid under cover in a sheltered spot; a little farther on under a heavy
fire we met Lieutenant Boileau bringing out a stretcher for him. As
Cock was being carried in, a bearer was shot dead, and Dr. Campbell
took his place and brought him into hospital.

It was a strange situation, as in our retreat we were alternately
exposed to a fire, and quite sheltered. Luckily the place selected for
a hospital was safe, and there a sad sight met my eyes. In the short
period that elapsed between the commencement of the assault and my
return, the hospital had been filled. Young Forbes was on his back,
pale as a sheet, but cheerful. Ridgeway flushed with the glow of battle
on him. “Certamis gaudia,” I said, “I hope you are
not much hurt.” “Only my [174]shoulder
smashed,” he said. Colonel Nuttall was slightly wounded, making
four out of nine Europeans. Besides these were men of the 44th of all
ranks, some almost insensible, others in great pain, some composed,
others despondent. Outside lay a heap of dead. Twenty-five per cent. of
the native ranks had fallen, killed or wounded. Some of my gun coolies
were among the latter, besides one or two killed.

I remember a wounded Kuki who was supporting himself by leaning
against a great vat of Naga beer prepared to refresh the defenders of
the fortress, and by him lay a dead Naga. The Kuki had a dao (sword) in
his hand, and every now and then he fortified himself with a deep
draught of the grateful fluid, and thus strengthened made a savage cut
at the body of his foe.

We had captured all but the highest forts, and a renewed attack with
our small numbers was out of the question, as night was closing in, and
we were very anxious as to the safety of our detached parties under
Evans, Macgregor, and Henderson.4

It was determined to remain where we were for the night, and
Lieutenant Raban represented to the General the necessity of fortifying
our position. This duty he and Mansel and I undertook, I bringing my
Kuki coolies to the work, which we accomplished by 7 P.M. [175]

General Nation had intended to capture Konoma and
return to Suchema at once, but the stout resistance offered by the
Nagas upset all calculations, and we were thus stranded without warm
clothing or provisions on a bleak spot, 5000 or 6000 feet above the
sea. I sent off some of my Naga emissaries, and induced the neutral men
of Mozuma to go to Suchema and bring the bedding of the wounded men and
some food which was done. With difficulty we got enough water to drink,
but there was none for washing, and when at last we sat down on the
ground to eat our frugal meal, the doctors had to eat with hands
covered with blood, indeed, none of our hands were very presentable. At
last, to our great relief, our detached parties returned one by one.
Lieutenant (now Colonel) C. R. Macgregor, D.S.O., a most gallant and capable officer, had been out all
day with only fifteen men, and inflicted some injury on the Nagas. He
was Quartermaster-General of the force, and did good service
throughout. The accession of numbers was a great relief, as we now
[176]had the means of renewing the attack next day,
but ammunition and supplies were required, and Williamson and I
volunteered to go to Suchema for them next day. The night was very
cold, but we managed to sleep all huddled up together, the dead lying
all round us.

Early next morning, Williamson and I started with all our coolies
and an escort of fifty men. We saw no signs of the enemy, but came
across several men of the 43rd who had strayed away from their
detachments in the dark and hidden in the jungles. At Suchema we found
all right, but before we got there, we saw our flag flying over Konoma,
showing, as I had expected, that it had been evacuated during the
night. This event immediately made our neutral friends of Mozuma, our
allies, and they gave us hearty assistance, and we took back an ample
supply of provisions. The Mozuma people told us that the Konoma men had
never contemplated the possibility of being driven out, and that they
had stored up 2000 maunds of rice which had fallen into our hands.

The enemy had retired into some fortified stockades called Chukka on
the main range to their rear, a most difficult position to attack. I
offered the General to carry the guns into position for him if he cared
to assault them, but our loss, especially in officers, had been so
great that he declined, and probably he was right, as the risk was very
great if the enemy stood his ground, so the General decided to await
reinforcements. All the same it was to be regretted that we were unable
to deliver two or three blows in rapid succession. [177]

We left a party at Konoma and marched to Suchema with the wounded,
Ridgeway, with great courage, marching all the way on foot, rather than
endure the shaking of an improvised litter. On the 27th, I joined a
force, with which we attacked and destroyed the unfriendly portion of
Jotsuma, a large and powerful village, and on the 29th, as there was
nothing else to do, made a rapid journey to Manipur with Lieutenant
Raban, that he might survey the road as I wanted the trace for a cart
road cut. We returned on December 4th.

On December 6th, Williamson and I started for Golaghat, to meet Sir
Steuart Bayley. At Samagudting I had a perfect ovation, all the village
turning out to see me, and greeting me warmly as an old acquaintance.
Alas! many were suffering from a disease we called Naga sores, and
several had died. The once lovely place looked desolate and miserable,
almost all the fine trees had been ruthlessly cut down by one of my
successors, in a panic, lest they should afford cover for hostile
Nagas. The place looked so sad that I could not bear to stay there as I
had intended, and left again almost directly. We reached Golaghat on
December 9th, and stayed with the Chief Commissioner and started again
on the 12th, and rode fifty-five miles into Dimapur, but I was not at
all well, indeed had been much the reverse for several days, bad food
and hard work having upset me. We reached Suchema on the 14th.

Overtures for submission were made by some of the hostile villages,
but I said that an unconditional surrender of all fire-arms must
precede any negotiations. [178]Meanwhile, I grew daily worse, and
the doctors told me that I must go to Manipur for change and quiet,
which, as there was nothing to be done just then, I did, leaving
Captain Williamson in charge of the Political Department.

I reached Manipur on December 22nd, and a day or two’s rest
did me so much good that I left again on the 27th, and rode to
Mythephum, sixty miles, but was taken ill on the road, and suffered
most dreadful pain for the last twenty miles, arriving completely
prostrated. The next day, being worse, I sent a message to Manipur,
asking for the native doctor and a litter to be sent to meet me, while
I got back as far as Mayang Khang on my pony, though hardly able to sit
upright. I halted here for the night, but had no sleep, and in the
morning started in a rough litter, but the shaking increased the pain,
so that I again tried riding till I reached Kong-nang-pokhee, twenty
miles from Manipur, where, to my intense relief, I found my doolai and
our native doctor, Lachman Parshad. I reached Manipur at 11
P.M.

Next day, December 30th, I was no better, and as the doctor was very
anxious, not understanding my case, which was acute inflammation, my
wife wrote to Dr. O’Brien of the 44th, asking him to come and see
me. I was laid up till January 17th, and only narrowly escaped with
life, my suffering being aggravated by a deficiency of medicine in our
hospital, and a week’s delay in getting it from Cachar. One day I
got out of bed to see Thangal Major on very important business
connected with Konoma, of which some of the inhabitants had tried
[179]to open an intrigue with Manipur. Dr.
O’Brien arrived about the 13th, and left on the 18th, and I was
preparing to follow in a few days, when complications on the Lushai
frontier detained me, and then as the Chief Commissioner was about to
come up en route to the Naga Hills, to present the Maharajah
with the order of the Star of India in recognition of his services, I
waited till I could march up with him.

On January 30th, I heard that the Baladhun tea factory in Cachar had
been attacked, and a European and several coolies killed by the Merema
clan of Konoma. Knowing that Cachar was badly off for troops, I asked
the Durbar to send two hundred men to the frontier, close to the tea
factory, to aid the Cachar authorities, and this was done. On February
6th, I started for Cachar to meet the Chief Commissioner, reaching that
place on the 7th, and marched back with him, arriving at Manipur on
February 20th, where he was received with every demonstration of
respect, the Maharajah turning out with all his court to meet him at
the usual place, and escorting him to the spot where the road turned
off to the Residency.

The Chief Commissioner’s visit gave the greatest satisfaction
to every one in Manipur. He stayed five days, during which he had
several interviews with the Maharajah, and held a grand Durbar, at
which he invested him with the star and badge of a K.C.S.I. He also
attended a review held by the Rajah, besides seeing all the sights of
the place, including a game of polo by picked players. In fact the
visit was a thorough success, and the Manipuris often spoke of it with
pleasure years afterwards. [180]

Just before we started for the Naga Hills, I received the news of an
attack by the Chussad Kukis on the Tankhool village of Chingsow, to the
north-east of Manipur, forty-five people were said to have been killed
or carried off; and the excitement was all the greater from the belief
entertained that the attack had been instigated by the Burmese. I
determined, after consultation with Sir Steuart Bayley, to proceed to
the spot myself, and investigate the whole affair; and it was,
therefore, decided that, after escorting him to Kohima, I should return
to Manipur and take up the case. We marched to Kohima, which we reached
on March 1st, and on the 2nd, I returned to Mao, en route to
Manipur, where I arrived on March 5th.

Before leaving the subject of the Naga Hills, I ought to say, that, it is
difficult to over-estimate our obligation to the Maharajah, for his
loyal conduct during the insurrection and subsequent troubles.
According to his own belief, we had deprived him of territory belonging
to him, and which he had been allowed to claim as his own. The Nagas
asked him to help them, and promised to become his feudatories, if only
he would not act against them. The temptation must have been strong, to
at least serve us as we deserved, by leaving us in the lurch to get out
of the mess, as best as we could. Instead of this, Chandra Kirtee Singh
loyally and cheerfully placed his resources at our disposal, and
certainly by enabling me to march to its relief, prevented the fall of
Kohima, and the disastrous results which would have inevitably
followed. It is grievous to think that his son, the then Jubraj Soor
Chandra Singh, who served [181]us so well, was allowed to die in
exile, and that Thangal Major died on the scaffold: while many others
who accompanied the expedition, were transported as criminals, across
the dreaded “black water” to the Andamans.

It was the misfortune of those engaged in the Naga Hills expedition,
that they were overshadowed, and their gallant deeds almost ignored, by
the Afghan war then in progress. Some of the English papers imagined
that the operations in the Naga Hills were included in it, and the
Government of India, which has only eyes for the North-West Frontier,
showed little desire to recognise the hard work, and good service
rendered on its eastern border, amidst difficulties far greater than
those which beset our troops in Afghanistan. The force engaged, hoped
that the capture of Konoma, which was achieved after such hard fighting
and at so great a loss, would have been at least recognised by some
special decoration, but this hope was disappointed, apparently for no
other reason, than that the troops engaged, fought in the east, and not
in the west of India. Kaye, the historian, once said that, “the
countries to the east of the Bay of Bengal, were the grave of
fame.” Well did the Naga Hills campaign, prove the truth of his
words. A bronze star was the reward of a bloodless march from Kabul to
Kandahar, but not even a clasp could be spared to commemorate the
capture of Konoma, and those who never saw a shot fired, shared the
medal awarded equally with those who fought and bled in that bloody
fight. [182]

I had not fully recovered my strength after my
illness, and besides there was much to do, so I did not start for
Chingsow till the 11th, when I marched to Lairen, twenty-five miles
distant. Near a place called Susa Kameng, where the hills approach each
other very closely, from either side of the valley, a rampart connects
them. It was built in former days as a barrier against the Tankhools,
when they were the scourge of the neighbourhood.

After leaving Susa Kameng, the valley narrowed for some miles, and
then we crossed a ridge about 1000 feet above it, and finally descended
into a charming little upland valley, which, but for the Kukis, those
terrible enemies of trees and animal life, would be the cherished home
of wild elephants. After crossing this, we again made a slight descent,
and found ourselves close to the camp on a lovely stream. There I found
Bularam Singh, who was to be minister in attendance on me during my
march, that part of the country being under his jurisdiction. The next
day we went on to Noong-suong-kong [183]over a most lovely country,
often 5000 feet above the sea, and with hill villages in the most
romantic situation; and—remarkable sign of the peace produced by
the rule of Manipur—we met large numbers of unarmed wayfarers.
This day we also saw terrace cultivation, in which the Tankhools excel,
and rhododendrons in full flower, a splendid sight. The next day, after
another most interesting march, we halted in a pretty upland valley,
5100 feet above the sea; the valley was long, and a stream meandered
through it, the banks being clothed with willows and wild pear trees,
covered with blossoms. The hillsides were well-wooded, the trees being
chiefly pines with rhododendrons here and there.

On March 14th, we descended the Kongou-Chow-Ching, and in a village
I saw for the first time shingle roofs. We passed the last fir tree at
5800 feet, and reached the watershed at 7300 feet. At the top of the
pass in a slightly sheltered position, was a solitary rhododendron. The
cold was so great that, though walking, I was glad to put on a thick
great-coat; the winds were exceedingly piercing. Some of the hills
round were denuded of trees, and the hill people said that it was the
severity of the winds that prevented their growth. The view from the
highest point was splendid, on all sides a magnificent array of hills
and valleys. Near to us were some of the most luxuriant forests I have
ever seen, the trees of large size, and many of them with gnarled
trunks, recalling the giants of an English park. Under some of these
trees was a greensward where it would have been delightful to encamp,
[184]had time allowed, but the difficulty of
obtaining water limits one’s halting place in the hills.
Everywhere on the western face of the hills pines seemed to stop at
5800 feet; but on the east they rose to 9400!

Four villages, in the Tankhool country, apparently monopolised the
bulk of the cloth manufactures, and different tribal patterns were made
to suit the purchaser. Some of these cloths are very handsome and
strong, and calculated to wear for a long time. But the superior energy
of the Manipuris in cloth weaving, has greatly injured the trade in the
hill villages; in the same way that Manchester and Paisley have injured
the weaving trade in most of India. The Manipuris supply a fair pattern
of the different tribal cloths at a lower price, and thus manage to
undersell those of native manufacture, but the quality is not nearly so
good as in the original. The prices in the hills are decidedly high.
Every village has its blacksmith, but some devote themselves more
especially to ironwork.

We reached Chingsow on March 15th, after a march of twelve miles
that morning, chiefly made up of ascents and descents, some being so
steep that it was with difficulty that we got along. Finally, after a
direct ascent of 4980 feet, followed by a descent of 3600 feet, we
reached our encamping ground below the village which towered above us.
The next day I investigated the case, and found that, as reported,
twenty males and twenty-five females had been murdered. I saw the fresh
graves and dug up one as evidence, the bodies contained in it were
those of a mother and [185]child, and presented a frightful
spectacle with half of the heads cut off, including the scalp, and both
in an advanced state of decomposition. It appeared that a demand has
been made by Tonghoo, the Chussad Chief, that the Chingsow Nagas should
submit to him and pay tribute, but they, of course, refused as subjects
of Manipur. They heard of nothing more till they were attacked on the
morning of the fatal day. The people had just begun to stir, and some
had lighted their fires, when suddenly they heard the fire of musketry
at the entrance of the village. They ran out of their houses, and the
Chussads fell upon them, and the massacre commenced. The assailants
were about fifty in number, and the people in their terror were driven
in all directions, and slaughtered, some being shot and others being
cut down by daos.

While this was going on, some of the men assembled with spears and
advanced on the Chussads, who then retreated firing the village, and
carrying off all the pigs, spears and iron hoes they could lay hands
on. Five Nagas of Chattik came with the Chussads and were recognised.
The village of Chingsow was most strongly situated, even more so than
Konoma, indeed, the same might be said of many villages in that part of
the country, and is entered by long winding paths cut through the rock,
by which only one man at a time could pass, so that well defended it
would be difficult to take. But the fact was that Manipur having put a
stop to blood feuds among its subjects, had rather placed them at a
disadvantage, as they were not quite as well prepared for an attack as
formerly. [186]

After leaving Chingsow, we marched through a pretty country, part of
our way lying along a high ridge with a precipice on one side, and a
deep ravine on the other, and we finally halted in a stream far below
our last camp. Every march was a succession of steep ascents and then
equally steep descents into narrow valleys. It was most exasperating
sometimes to see how needlessly an ascent was made over a high ridge,
when a path of no greater length could have been made round it.

On the 17th, I encamped beside a river where I was visited by many
Tankhools, including children, who crowded round me fearlessly. The
people were a fine race, but almost inconceivably dirty, some of them
seemed grimed with the dirt of years. There were plenty of fine pieces
of terrace cultivation. It was very curious to find that among the
Tankhools there seemed to be a universal belief that they originally
sprung from the “Mahawullee,” or sacred grove in
Manipur.

On March 18th, we reached Chattik, a fine village on a ridge from
which we had a splendid view, including the Chussad villages. As I had
done all I had come for, and wished to see a new country, I determined
to march back straight to Manipur across the hills. It was not the
beaten track which lay by Kongal Tannah, and no one in my camp knew it,
but I felt sure it could be found, and old Bularam Singh cheerfully
agreed. We started on the 19th, and after passing a village that had
been plundered by the Chussads, we halted after a sixteen-mile march,
during which I was badly hurt by a bamboo which [187]pierced my leg. On the march we passed some
terrible-looking pits, 12 feet deep, and about 3 or 3½ feet wide
with sharp stakes at the bottom. They are meant to catch enemies on the
war path, or deer, and are placed in the centre of the roads and
covered lightly. God help the poor man or animal who is impaled in
these horrible pits and dies in agony, for no one else will.

On the 20th, we halted at Pong, after an interesting but tiring
march, during which we crossed the summit of a high range at 7100 feet,
covered with forest, and small and very solid bamboos. The descent was
through a noble pine forest with trees that must have been two hundred
feet high. It rained heavily, and when we halted I should have had a
miserable night of it but for the care of the Manipuris, who built me a
comfortable hut, and went away smiling and cheerful to cook their food,
though they looked half drowned. Never did I see men work better under
difficulties. Owing to them I had as nice a resting-place as a man on
the march could want, and an hour after I had an excellent dinner.

We started early next morning, and made a gradual ascent till we
reached Hoondoong, a Tankhool village 5200 feet above the sea. After
that our road lay through a splendid fir forest, with here and there an
avenue of oaks, but from time to time we came across large tracts of
forest that had been laid low and burned. At Hoondoong I saw some
curious graves, high mounds shaped like a large H.

They were outside the village. There were also [188]more
and better-looking women and children than are to be seen in most
Tankhool villages. The men of the Tankhool race are, in physique, quite
equal to the Angamis.

In the main street of Hoondoong, there were two rows of dead trees
about twenty feet high, planted in front of the houses, and orchids
were growing on them. The people seemed happy and contented under the
rule of Manipur, and their houses were large and commodious
structures.

We reached Eethum Tannah in the valley of Manipur after a terrible
descent, rendered all the more difficult by heavy rain, which made the
narrow path so slippery as to be almost impassable. During the whole of
my long march through a wild country covered with forest I had, with
the exception of the Hoolook monkey (Hylohete) seen no wild
animals, scarcely a bird!

I reached Manipur on March 22nd, having greatly enjoyed my tour in
the hills, and had hardly arrived when Thangal Major came to see me
and talk about the Chussad business. Soon after I sent to Tonghoo, the
Chussad chief, to demand his submission. He did not come himself, but
sent his brother Yankapo. The Manipuris thought this a grand
opportunity to secure hostages, and begged me to allow the arrest of
him and his followers. I severely rebuked them for making such a
treacherous proposal.

I had several interviews with the young chief and his followers who
spoke Manipuri fluently, and admitted that they were subjects of the
Maharajah. This visit eventually led to a better understanding
[189]with the Chussads, and to the submission of
Tonghoo himself, who subsequently became a peaceable subject. For the
present, however, I had to exact reparation for the attack on Chingsow,
and for some months the affair cost me much anxiety. [190]

About this time I heard one morning that a man had
been convicted in concert with a woman of committing a grave offence,
and that the woman had, according to custom, been sentenced to be
exposed in every bazaar in the country, in the way already described.
The man had been sentenced to death, and ordered to Shoogoonoo for
execution. As the offence was not one which our courts would punish
with death, I sent a friendly remonstrance to the Maharajah, and
requested that he might be produced before me, that I might satisfy
myself that he was uninjured. The Maharajah at once consented, and in a
few days the man was brought before me safe and sound, and after having
been exposed as a criminal in several bazaars, he was sentenced with my
approval to a fitting term of imprisonment. I also asked the minister
in future, to let me know for certain when a sentence of death was
passed, that I might advise them, without appearing to the outer world
to interfere, in case they inadvertently condemned a man to capital
punishment, for a crime [191]which our laws would not approve
of being visited so severely. Realising that my object was to save them
from discredit, they at once consented, and I hinted that I would never
sanction the penalty of death for cow-killing.

As I have stated, it had been almost always the custom to refer
death sentences to me. Often and often when I made a remonstrance to
the ministers about any contemplated action of which I disapproved, I
was told that I misapprehended the state of things, and that nothing of
the kind was intended. Of course, I let them down easily, and appeared
satisfied with their assurances. However, neither party was deceived,
they accepted my strong hint in a friendly spirit, and knew well that I
took their denial as a mere matter of form. The result was what I cared
for, and it was generally achieved without friction.

One of the most unpleasant parts of my duty was the perpetual
necessity of saying “No” to the ministers. My great object
was to be continually building up our prestige. Colonel McCulloch had
said to me, “Never make any concession to the Manipuris without
an equivalent,” and it is inconceivable how many times in our
daily intercourse I had to refuse little apparently insignificant, but
really insidious requests. The struggle on behalf of native British
subjects was long kept up, but in the end I gained my point, and their
rights and privileges were fully recognised.

Early in June, some men of the Merema clan of Konoma who were
fugitives in a very wild part of the hills of Manipur bordering on the
Naga Hills, [192]came to me, making a piteous appeal for mercy,
saying they would have nothing to do with the Naga Hills officials, but
came to me as their old friend and master in the days when I was at
Samagudting. As they came in trusting to my honour, I would not have
them arrested, but sent them away, telling them that nothing but good
and loyal conduct on their part could win my esteem, and that they must
make their submission and deliver up Mr. Damant’s murderers to
the Political Officer in the Naga Hills, before I consented to deal
with them. I also gave orders to the Manipuri troops on the frontier,
to act with the utmost vigour against all Konoma men found within the
territory of Manipur.

Soon after some Lushais visited me, and we settled up a
long-standing dispute between them and Manipur.

The Konoma men continued to give much trouble, and to keep some
check on them, I refused at last to allow any to enter Manipur, except
by the Mao Tannah, and furnished with a pass from the Political
Officer, Colonel Michell. I also arrested one of the supposed
murderers, but the evidence against him was not considered quite
satisfactory.

On the morning of June 30th, at 4.45, when we were at Kang-joop-kool
there was a violent earthquake, the oscillations continuing with great
force from north to south, and apparently in a less degree from
east to west for some minutes. Plaster was shaken from the walls, and
crockery and bottles thrown down, and furniture upset. Locked doors
were flung open and the whole house, built of wood and bamboo, shaken
as by a giant hand. Two Naga [193]girls sleeping in my
children’s room next to the one my wife and I occupied, sprang up
and ran outside, my two boys, not realising what was up, seemed to
think it a good joke. We all got up and hurried on our things to be
ready for an emergency, but I soon saw that all present danger was
over. At 8.50 A.M., there was another sharp
shock, and again about 2 P.M., besides several
slighter ones.

In the valley, and especially at the capital, the shocks were of the
utmost violence and the earthquake said to be the worst known with the
exception of the terrible one of January 1869. Many houses built of
wood and bamboo were levelled with the ground, the ruins at Langthabal
greatly injured, and a peepul tree growing over a picturesque old
temple torn off. The old Residency was greatly injured, part being
thrown down, and the fireplace and chimney shaken into fragments, but
still, strange to say, standing. Some houses in the Residency compound
were rendered useless. The great brick bridge on the Cachar road was
cracked and much damage done. The earth opened in several places. The
new Residency, which was nearly finished, and was built in the old
English half-timbered style, was intact.

During the next few days several more shocks occurred, causing much
alarm among the people, who predicted something still worse. The
earthquake was followed by the severest outbreak of cholera that I had
witnessed since a dreadful epidemic in Assam in 1860. There were many
deaths in the palace, and public business was at a standstill. I was
unable to lay any question before the Durbar, as half [194]the
officials were performing the funeral ceremonies of relations. The
great bazaar was closed at sunset, and even then many of the sellers
went home to find their children dead or dying. Everywhere on the banks
of the rivers, and streams, people might be seen performing the funeral
obsequies of relations and lamenting the dead. Amid this trouble, the
attitude of all classes was such as to excite admiration, there were no
cases of sick being deserted and every one appeared calm and
collected.

Later on, the cholera attacked my village of Kang-joop-kool, and ten
per cent. of the population died.

Early in the autumn, the Maharajah was taken ill with an abscess
behind the ear, and great apprehensions were entertained for his life.
The whole capital was for weeks in a state of alarm, fearing a struggle
for the throne in case of his death. The four eldest sons, and also
some members of the family of the late Rajah Nur Singh, had their
followers armed so as to be ready to assert their several claims
immediately the Maharajah died, the former were constantly in
attendance on their father night and day. The Maharajah was himself
very anxious about the conduct of his younger sons. As suffocation
might any moment have terminated the invalid’s life, I made all
necessary plans, with a view to acting promptly, if required, and, in
conjunction with Thangal Major, arranged so as to secure the guns and
bring them over to the Residency the moment that he died. I also
desired the Jubraj (heir apparent) to come over to me at once, in the
event of the death of his father, that I might instantly proclaim him
and give him my support. I had a most [195]grateful message from
the Maharajah in reply, as also from the Jubraj, who promised to abide
entirely by my instructions. However, the abscess burst, and the
Maharajah recovered, and though a shot imprudently fired one evening
led to a panic when the bazaar was deserted, things soon settled down
again.

As soon as the Maharajah was again able to transact business, he
begged me to write to the Government of India and request that the
Jubraj should be acknowledged by them as his successor. I did so, at
the same time strongly urging that the guarantee should be extended to
the Jubraj’s children, so as to preclude the possibility of a
disputed succession on his death. The Jubraj earnestly supported this
request, but the Maharajah preferred adhering to the old Manipuri
custom, which really seemed made to encourage strife. If, for instance,
a man had ten sons, they all succeeded one after the other, passing
over the children of the elder ones, but when the last one died, then
his children succeeded as children of the last Rajah, to the exclusion
of all the elder brothers’ children. All the same, if these could
make good their claim by force of arms, they were cheerfully accepted
by the people who were ready to take any scion of Royalty.

The consequence had always been in former days that to prevent
troublesome claims, a man, on ascending the throne, immediately made
every effort to murder all possible competitors. It is obvious that
such a cumbersome system was undesirable, and I held that having once
interfered we ought to set things on a proper and sensible basis, and
that there [196]was no middle course between this and leaving
the people to themselves. Thangal Major, who always greatly dreaded the
violent and unscrupulous disposition of Kotwal Koireng (afterwards
Senaputtee), agreed with me. The Maharajah,
however, with a father’s tenderness for his sons, would not
advocate my proposal, but still, would have gladly accepted it. The
Government of India judged differently, and only sanctioned my proposal
so far as to allow me to say that they would guarantee the
Jubraj’s succession, and maintain him on his throne. This
decision gave great satisfaction.

This year was unpleasantly distinguished by a great deficiency of
rain in the valley, and a corresponding superfluity, though at
irregular intervals, in the hills. For a long time there were
apprehensions of scarcity, while in the hills the rainfall was so heavy
that the Laimetak bridge was washed away and the river rose six feet
above its banks. On one side, a large portion of its pebbly bed was
hollowed out, and much widened, and 80 feet width of solid boulders
carried away. The Eerung rose about 40 feet, and portions of the hill
road were cut away, but the want of steady rain was felt.

By the end of September, the Maharajah was able to transact
business, though, as he was not well enough to visit me, I visited him,
that I might congratulate him on his recovery, and present him with Her
Majesty’s warrant, appointing him a Knight Commander of the Star
of India. The papers bearing the Queen’s signature were received
with a salute of thirty-one guns, and the Maharajah rose to take it
from my hand, and at once placed it [197]on his forehead,
making an obeisance. I then made a speech to all assembled, expressing
my satisfaction at the Maharajah’s recovery, and the
gratification it gave me to be the means of conveying the warrant to
him.

Nothing of great importance now occurred, but I was constantly
occupied by the troubled state of the eastern frontier of Manipur where
Sumjok (Thoungdoot) continued to intrigue with the Chussad and
Choomyang Kukis, who were a ceaseless trouble to the Tankhool Nagas,
about Chattik. These intrigues were conducted with a view to gaining
over the latter as subjects. The chief difficulty of Manipur was, that
the boundary had never been properly defined, so neither party had a
good case against the other. Manipur was in possession, but otherwise
everything was unsatisfactory, our failure to settle the Kongal case
having encouraged the Burmese authorities to resistance. [198]

In November, I marched to Mao on the Naga Hills
frontier, and arranged for the improvement of some of the halting
places on the way. I also asked Sir Steuart Bayley, the Chief
Commissioner, to allow Lieutenant Raban, R.E., to visit Manipur, with a
view to laying out the line of a cart road from the Manipur valley to
Mao. This arrangement he sanctioned, and Lieutenant Raban arrived in
Manipur on December 30th, 1880. The line from Sengmai was bad
throughout, and an exceedingly difficult one in many places. Thangal
Major accompanied us, and I had induced the Maharajah to open out a
narrow road, on being supplied with the necessary tools. We carefully
examined the whole of the road in detail, and, after deciding on the
line to adopt, cut the trace. It was a matter requiring great skill and
patience, both of which Lieutenant Raban had. He was very ably seconded
by the Manipuris, whose keen intelligence made them good auxiliaries.
Often the line had to be cut along the face of a cliff, but fortunately
the rock was soft, and the work was accomplished without accident. The
[199]way we turned the head of the Mao river, the
descent to and ascent from which I had so often, so painfully
accomplished, was a great success, and did not materially increase the
distance, as we saved it by striking the main path at different
points.1

In the village of Mukhel near which we passed, we saw a pear tree
three or four hundred years old, and greatly venerated by the
villagers. In the same village I saw a Naga cut another man’s
hair with a dao (sword). The operation was performed most dexterously
and neatly, by holding the dao under the hair, and then slightly
tapping the latter with a small piece of wood. The result was that the
hair-cutting was as neatly accomplished as it could have been by the
best London hair-dresser. I asked a fine young Naga why all his tribe
wore a single long tuft of hair at the back? He at once replied,
“To make the girls admire me,” and added that without it,
he should be laughed at. This is the only explanation I ever had of the
curious fact that most of the Naga tribes wear a long tuft behind, like
Hindoos. By the third week in January we had laid out the line of road.
Thangal Major approved of most of it, but said, regarding the piece
between Sengmai and Kaithemahee, “I will cut it as I promised,
but who will ever use it?” I differed from him, as nothing could
exceed the tortuous and hilly nature of the old road, running as it did
across one succession of spurs and deep ravines, one of the most
heart-breaking paths I ever went along. [200]Within a month of its
completion the old path was entirely deserted.

My health was beginning to break down entirely. I had been very ill
during and immediately after the Naga Hills Expedition, and during the
last march I was laid up one or two days. My wife had long been a
sufferer, but she did not like to leave me, and I did not like to leave
Manipur while the frontier was disturbed and the Kongal case unsettled.
However, now I felt that we both must have change, and our children
also were of an age to go home.

On my return from looking after the road, fresh complications
awaited me. News came from Chattik of the Sumjok (Thoungdoot)
authorities having again caused dissension and joined with another
village in firing on a Manipuri piquet. This had led to reprisals on
the part of the Manipuris, who attacked and drove out the enemy. All
this was done without our relations with Sumjok being anything but
strained, the act of hostility being unauthorised. The ill-defined
nature of the frontier was such, that neither party could be said to be
in the right or wrong. The Kuki, Chussad, and other frontier villages
took advantage of the state of things to plunder the Tankhools, and the
latter in their turn appealed to Manipur.

I felt that, until something was done to set things on a right
footing, I could not leave. Sir Steuart Bayley was about this time
appointed to Hyderabad, which added to my difficulties, as he was
intimately acquainted with the situation, and of course a change in the
administration necessarily means delay. The Burmese authorities,
knowing what I now do, were [201]always, as I then believed,
favourably inclined to us; the ill-feeling was entirely on the part of
Sumjok, whose Tsawbwa had influence at Mandalay, and was able to
prevent justice being done in the case in which he was so discreditably
concerned. He also took advantage of this influence to carry on the
guerilla warfare he did through the Chussads, who disliked Manipur, on
account of some treacherous behaviour on her part in former years.

As the spring advanced, of course the danger of hostilities became
less. Cæsar said, ”Omnia bella hieme
requiescunt.” The reverse holds good in India, and on the
eastern frontier the fiercest tribes keep quiet in the rainy
season.2

In March, I heard that Mr. (now Sir Charles) Elliott, the new Chief
Commissioner, was about to visit Kohima, where he wished to meet me,
and I set off on my way there, arriving on the 19th, being well
received all along the road by the people of the different villages. I
had a long talk with the Chief Commissioner about the affairs of
Manipur, and the necessity for a survey and delimitation of the
boundary between it and Burmah during the ensuing cold weather, and
then returned. The new road had been opened out to such a width, except
here and there—I was able to ride the whole distance.

The weather was lovely, and the rhododendrons near Mao, and the wild
pears, azaleas, and many other flowering trees along my route, made the
long journey a most pleasant one. Let me say here, while on the subject
of the road, that, notwithstanding all the criticisms passed on it and
predictions of its [202]uselessness, it proved of immense, nay,
incalculable value during the Burmese War of 1885–86, and the sad
troubles of 1891. It was throughout of an easy gradient, never
exceeding one in twenty, and, had a bullock train been established,
might have been used from an early date for conveying produce from
Manipur to the stations of Kohima.

This was my last visit to Kohima, a place fraught with so deep an
interest to me, and so many pleasant and painful associations. I shall
always regret that the site chosen by myself and Major Williamson was
not adopted for the new cantonment, which, with the larger space
available, would have admitted of a greater development than is
possible under present circumstances. Still the place will always
possess an undying interest for me, filled as it is with the memory of
events bearing on my work from the early triumphs of old Ghumbeer
Singh, and my predecessor, Lieut. Gordon, to the day when I marched in
at the head of the relieving party, and heard the fair-haired English
child told by her mother that at last she could have water to
drink!

On my return to Manipur, I intended to have started for England, and
our passages were taken by a steamer leaving in April. But the
unsettled state of the Burmese frontier forced me to stay till the
rains had set in in the hills. During this spring we had a visitor, Mr.
Hume, C.B., the well-known ornithologist, who spent three months in
studying the birds of Manipur, with the result, I believe, that very
few new species were found.

In April, we had a little excitement to vary the monotony of life,
though to me my work was of such [203]never-ending interest, that I
needed nothing of the kind. On April 13th, the Maharajah sent to tell
me that a tiger had been surrounded, and asked me to go out and help to
shoot it. The place was about fourteen miles from the capital, and we
started early and rode off to a spot a few miles from Thobal.

I took my sister and the two boys with me, my wife staying with the
baby. The tiger had, according to Manipuri custom, been first enclosed
by a long net, about eight feet high, and outside this a bamboo
palisading had been erected, on which the platforms were built for the
spectators. The space enclosed was eighty to a hundred yards in
diameter, and contained grass and scrub jungle, and a log of wood tied
to strong ropes was arranged, so that it might be dragged up and down
to drive the tiger out of the covert. As soon as we were all in our
places this rope was vigorously pulled, with the result that a tigress,
followed by two cubs, sprang out with a loud roar. The Jubraj was
present, and took command of the proceedings, courteously asking me
from time to time what I wished done. After the first charge, the tiger
was not very lively, and this being the case, several Manipuris,
contrary to orders, jumped down into the arena with long and heavy
spears in the right hand, and a small forked stick in the left. With
the latter they held up a portion of the net, which had been allowed to
fall on the ground to shield their faces, if necessary, and with the
right hand poised the spear, shouting to irritate the tiger, whom
others in the stockade tried to drive out by throwing stones.
[204]

Roused by this, the infuriated brute charged in earnest at one of
the men on foot, the latter awaited her with the utmost coolness, and,
as she approached, struck her with the spear; the tiger, however, made
good her charge, but the net stopped her, and she rolled over, and when
released, she retreated. This was repeated, both by the tigress and the
cubs, and after a shot or two, the men on foot attacked them with
spears and finished them off.

The whole scene was a very exciting one and a very fine display of
courage and coolness on the part of the Manipuris.

We did not reach home till 10 P.M., but the
weather was splendid, not unbearably hot as it would have been in India
so late in the season. The day was a memorable one to the boys, and I
well remember the astonishment they caused when, stopping at Shillong
on their way home, some one jokingly said, “And how many tigers
have you shot?” The boys gravely replied “Three.”

The day was very nearly proving the last to some of us. The two boys
were being carried in a litter, and my sister and I riding on ponies.
On leaving the village where we had halted, we were riding down a
narrow path with only room for one to pass at a time, when, suddenly, I
heard a shout behind me and saw an elephant following me at a great
pace, the mahout (driver) vainly endeavoured to stop him, he had been
frightened by the tiger’s dead body and was quite unmanageable. I
called to my sister, who was in front, to ride at full speed, and I
followed as quickly as her pony would allow. It was a race for life,
as, had the elephant gained on us, I, at least, must [205]have
been crushed. Luckily, the mahout recovered his control, and managed to
slacken the pace.

On our way home, we passed bushes of wild roses twenty feet in
diameter and quite impenetrable.

Finally, the tiger was taken to the Maharajah, who had not been well
enough to come, and, next morning, was brought to us and skinned.

I have already alluded to the turbulent character of Kotwal Koireng,
the Maharajah’s fourth son, and now, again, I was to have fresh
evidence of it. Early in May, I heard of his having three men so
severely beaten that one had died, and two were dangerously ill. On
investigation, I found that the men had been tied up and beaten on the
back, it was said, for two hours and slapped on the face at the same
time. I questioned the ministers, and practically there was no defence,
and, as I heard that the Maharajah was enquiring into the matter, I
said no more, beyond a warning that a case of murder must not be passed
over.

The Maharajah handed over the case to the Cherap Court3
for trial, and, as might be expected, they acquitted Kotwal of the
charge of causing death and found him guilty of injuring the other two.
The Maharajah sentenced him to banishment for a year to the island of
Thanga, in the Logtak Lake, and temporary degradation of caste. As a
sentence of two years’ imprisonment had been passed some years
previously in our own territory, for death caused under similar
circumstances, the sentence was not so lenient as might have been
expected. I reported the matter to the Government of India, expressing
[206]my approval of the sentence, under the
circumstances, and my verdict was ratified. I intimated to the Durbar
that, should such a thing occur again, I should insist on his permanent
banishment from Manipur.

This I was prepared to carry out myself if necessary. I should have
liked on this occasion to have procured his banishment, but, in dealing
with Native States that in these matters are practically independent, it
is not always well to press matters too far. In old days, under our
early political agents, such an offence would have passed unnoticed. It
was a point gained to have the case investigated and adjudicated on by
the Maharajah, and anything approaching to an adequate sentence
inflicted. Since the troubles in Manipur, I have seen it stated that
the sentence was a nominal one; that it certainly was not, the prince
was banished to Thanga, and if he surreptitiously appeared at the
capital, he did not appear in public, and when I left Manipur on long
leave, early in 1882, was still in banishment.

On May 31st, we all left Manipur on our way to England, and my
children bade adieu to a most happy home. It was a sad parting for most
of us, and though my wife’s health and mine urgently required
change, we left the valley with regret, and felt deep sorrow as we took
our last look of it from the adjacent range of hills. We reached Cachar
on June 8th, having halted as much as possible on high ground. The
rivers were in flood, and sometimes there was a little difficulty in
crossing. We left for Shillong on June 9th, and arrived there on the
15th, leaving again on the 21st for Bombay, from which, on July 5th, we
sailed for England. [207]

While at Shillong we were the guests of the Chief Commissioner, so
that I had an ample opportunity of talking over affairs with him, and
it was finally settled that I was to take Shillong on my way back, and
see Mr. Elliott before leaving, to settle the knotty question of the
boundary between Manipur and Burmah on the spot, in accordance with
orders lately received from the Government of India. [208]

I was really not fit to undertake any work in India
till my health was re-established, but could not bear to leave the
interests of Manipur in other hands until the boundary was settled. I
felt that I alone had the threads of the whole affair in my hands, and
that I could not honourably leave my post till I had seen Manipur out
of the difficulty. Thus it came that I left England again on September
7th, and my devoted wife, far less fit than I was for the trials of the
long journey, accompanied me, as she would not leave me alone.

We reached Shillong on October 18th, 1881, and, after arranging all
matters connected with the boundary settlement with the Chief
Commissioner, started for Cachar, and reached that place on October
25th, leaving again for Manipur next day, and marching to Jeree
Ghât, where we were met by Thangal Major. We made the usual
marches, and reached Manipur on November 4th, the Jubraj coming out
with a large retinue to meet me at Phoiching, eight miles from the
capital.

While I was away in the month of June, an [209]attempt at a revolution had occurred, the
standard of revolt having been raised by a man named Eerengha, an
unknown individual, but claiming to be of Royal lineage; such
revolutions were of common occurrence in former days. In Colonel
McCulloch’s time there were eighteen. In this case there was no
result, except that Eerengha and seventeen followers were captured and
executed. The treatment was undoubtedly severe, but not necessarily too
much so, as too great leniency might have led to a repetition, and much
consequent suffering and bloodshed.

I had an interview with the Maharajah, who was ill when I arrived,
as soon as he was well enough; and set to work to make preparations for
our march to the Burmese frontier. I intimated my desire to the
Maharajah that Bularam Singh, and not Thangal Major, should accompany
me, as I wished the last to stay at the capital, and also not to let
him appear to be absolutely indispensable.

I had been appointed Commissioner for settling the boundary with
plenipotentiary powers, and Mr. R. Phayre, C.S., who was in the Burmese
commission, and a good Burmese scholar, was appointed as my assistant.
There was also a survey party under my old friend Colonel Badgley, and
Mr. Ogle, while Lieutenant (now Major, D.S.O.) Dun,1 came on
behalf of the Intelligence Department. Mr. Oldham represented the
Geological Survey. Dr. Watt was naturalist and medical officer, while
Captain Angelo, with two hundred men of the 12th Khelat-i-Ghilzie
Regiment, commanded my escort. Mr. Phayre arrived first, and I sent him
off to Tamu to try and [210]smooth over matters with the
Burmese authorities there. Then my old friend Dun came, soon followed
by Dr. Watt, then the survey party arrived, and Captain Angelo with my
escort, and last of all Mr. Oldham. Never had Manipur seen so many
European officers. Some time was required for necessary triangulations
before we could start.

On November 30th, just as the sun was rising, Thangal Major came to
see me, and told me that the Maharajah was very ill and suffering great
pain. While talking, two guns were fired from the palace, when the old
man turned pale, evidently thinking that the Maharajah was dead. A few
minutes after a messenger came to inform us that the guns merely
announced a domestic event, but Thangal Major was nervous and soon took
leave, running away to the palace at a pace that did credit to his
sixty-four years.

On December 1st, Mr. Phayre returned from Tamu, having had a
friendly but unsatisfactory interview with the Phoongyee. The Pagan
Woon had been expected but did not arrive, and the Phoongyee had no
authority to act.

Before starting, the Maharajah visited me in state, and I introduced
all the officers of the party to him. He looked pale and haggard after
his illness, but seemed in good spirits. At last, on December 16th, we
made a move and marched to Thobal-Yaira-pok, and on the following day
to Ingorok, at the foot of the hills. My wife accompanied us, as I was
exceedingly anxious to show the Burmese my peaceful intentions, and
felt sure that the presence of a lady would be a better proof of my
bona fides than any [211]other I could offer. I heard
before leaving the frontier, that had it not been for this, a rupture
would have been certain while our relations were in a state of great
tension, but the fact of my wife being there, convinced the authorities
in the Kubo valley, that I had no idea of hostile action.

I have already described the route to Kongal, and my escort were
much tried by the severity of the marches over such a rough country.
The men had only lately returned from Afghanistan, and were in fine
condition, but they said that the country between Kandahar and Kabul,
was nothing to that between Ingorok and Kongal Tannah. Every day many
men were footsore, and reached camp, hours after me and my Manipuris.
There can be no doubt that for some reason or other the Eastern hills
and jungles are far more trying than those of the North-West
frontier.

However, at last we arrived safely at Kongal, and though the Burmese
and Sumjok officials, to whom I had written polite letters asking them
to meet me, did not turn up, the survey work went on merrily.

On the 18th, Colonel Badgley, who had come by an independent route
through the hills, joined my camp, and after a conference we came to
the conclusion that at any rate I was right in claiming the country
occupied by the Chussads and Choomyangs, as Manipuri territory. This
was very satisfactory, as the day before I had been much annoyed by the
Sumjok authorities having prevented some of the former fears
coming to pay their respects to me. The attitude of the Sumjok people
was passively hostile, they refused to join in making out the boundary,
and threw every obstacle in the way of [212]my doing so, but they
were evidently not inclined to be the first to shed blood.

On December 19th, I sent out two unarmed parties to clear some
ground for survey marks, but one of them was stopped by an armed party
of Sumjok men. On hearing this the next day I ordered the Manipuri
subadar in charge, to halt where he was, and I wrote to the Pagan Woon
to complain, and to ask him to order the Tsawbwa to interfere. On
the 21st, I heard that another party had been stopped, and I asked with
regard to them as I had done with the first. That afternoon I received
a civil letter from the Pagan Woon brought by a Bo (captain), saying
that he had orders to conduct negotiations at Tamu, and was not
authorised to come to Kongal Tannah. I wrote a conciliatory reply
urging him to visit us.

On the 22nd of December, I heard that my two parties had been
forcibly driven out by large bodies of armed men. I therefore called in
some Manipuri detachments lest there should be a collision, as the
atmosphere was getting very warlike, and only required a spark to
produce a conflagration. All the population of the Kubo valley were
said to be arming. The Burmese we talked to frankly admitted if there
was a rupture the fault would lie with Mandalay, for not sending a
proper representative to meet me, in accordance with the request of the
Government of India, conveyed months before.

Certainly one false move on our part would have provoked a rupture.
However, everything comes to him who waits. We made every effort to
keep [213]the peace, and while the authorities were
opposing us we kept up a friendly intercourse with all the individual
Burmese and Shans near us, and I carried on negotiation with the Kukis.
The Chussads were inclined to be friendly, but the Choomyangs were
still under the influence of Sumjok. Fortunately Colonel Badgley found
that he could dispense with the two points from whence our men had been
driven, and we discovered a little stream that formed an admirable
boundary line entirely in accordance with the terms laid down in
Pemberton’s definition of the boundary.

Further north, I knew the country well myself, and we had now no
difficulty in laying down a definite boundary line about which there
could be no doubt. This was done, and pillars were erected, and the
line marked on the map. Manipur might, according to Pemberton’s
statement, have claimed a good deal of territory occupied by Burmese
subjects, but this I refused to allow, as it would have been
interfering with the ”status quo,” which I desired
to preserve. I called all the Sumjok people I could to witness what I
had done, and they all agreed that what I said was fair, and that the
fault, if any, lay with the Burmese authorities, for not taking part in
the arrangement. This was willing testimony, as none of the people need
have come near me. Even Tamoo, the chief of Old Sumjok, or Taap, as the
Manipuris call it, visited me, and expressed his satisfaction with what
had been done. On Christmas Day, 1881, my wife and I had a party of
seven at our table, an unprecedented sight, and probably the last time
that nine Europeans will ever assemble at [214]Kongal Tannah. My
friend Dun, who had been badly wounded by a pangee (bamboo stake) had
to be carried in.

Before leaving Kongal, I went round all the pillars that had been
erected, and saw that they were intact. Mr. Ogle’s party went off
to the north, escorted through the village of Choomyang by Lieutenant
Dun. These people being under the influence of Sumjok, it was a very
delicate business getting through their village without a rupture. This
affair Dun managed with great tact. We left Kongal on our homeward
journey on the 6th of January, but previous to starting I brought my
long-standing negotiations with the Chussads to a successful
conclusion. They agreed to negotiate with me but not with the
Manipuris, and to abide by my decision entirely.

I sent a message to the Choomyangs and other Kukis who had given
trouble, telling them that they were undoubtedly within Manipur, and
that I gave them forty-two days in which to submit, or clear out,
adding, that if at the end of that time they gave any trouble, they
would be treated as rebels and attacked without more ceremony.
Eventually they submitted and became peaceful subjects of Manipur. As
to the great question—that of the boundary—I may here add
that it received the sanction of the Government of India, and proved a
thorough success. Though not noticing it officially, the Burmese
practically acknowledged it, and it remained intact, till the Kubo
valley became a British possession in December 1885.

My wife and I reached Manipur on the 9th of [215]January, having made the last two marches in
one, and next day were joined by Mr. Phayre, who had come,
viâ Tamu. He gave it as his opinion, that the Pagan Woon
was greatly disappointed at having had no authority from Mandalay to
negotiate with me, and described him as a sensible well-disposed
man.

I had now to write my report of my mission, and having finished
this, and handed over charge to my successor, I left Manipur with my
wife on the 29th of January, reaching Cachar, where we met Mr. Elliott,
the Chief Commissioner, on 5th of February. We left that evening by
boat, and travelling with the utmost speed possible, with such means as
we possessed, reached Naraingunge, near Dacca, and after waiting two
days for a steamer went to Calcutta, viâ Goalundo, and
thence to Bombay and England, where we arrived in March, both of us
very much in need of a prolonged rest. [216]

I left for India again in August 1884. I had had but a
sad period of sick leave, as my wife never recovered from her fatigue
and illness, and died in 1883. I was obliged to prolong my leave to
make arrangements for my children.

I took over charge of the Manipur Agency on the 1st October, 1884,
at Shillong, and stayed a few days with the Chief Commissioner. I left
again on 8th October and reached Cachar on the 15th, having made every
effort to push on, and given my boatmen double pay for doing so. On my
way to Cachar, I met people who complained to me of the way they had
been treated in Manipur while I was away, and of the arrogance
displayed by old Thangal Major, who, during my absence, had become
almost despotic. Thangal was an excellent man when kept well in hand,
but he required to be managed with great firmness. During the
Maharajah’s increasing illness, a good opportunity was given to a
strong man to come to the front, and Thangal took advantage of it. On
20th October, I reached Jeeree Ghât, and was received with great
effusion by the Minister Bularam Singh. At Kala Naga on the 22nd, I
heard definite complaints against Thangal, a [217]sure
proof that something very bad was going on, as no one would have
ventured to complain without grave provocation. Bularam Singh was
Thangal’s rival, so I asked him nothing, knowing well that I
should hear as much as I wanted at Manipur. At Noongha, next day, there
were fresh complaints, the charge being, that men told off to work on
the roads were being used by Thangal to carry merchandize for
himself.

At Leelanong, overlooking the beautiful Kowpoom valley, some Nagas
(Koupooees) brought me a man of their tribe who had been carried off as
a boy by the Lushais, and only lately redeemed. He was still in Lushai
costume, and though shorter and fairer, he greatly resembled one of
that tribe, showing what an influence dress has.

On 28th October, I arrived at Bissenpore, intending to march to the
capital next day, but was delayed by an unpleasant circumstance. It
was, as already mentioned, the custom for the Maharajah to meet me at
the entrance to the capital on my arrival, but knowing that he was not
well, I asked the minister to write and say that I did not expect him
to do so, but I would invite the Jubraj to meet me at Phoiching,
half-way between the capital and Bissenpore instead. I also wrote the
same to my head clerk, Baboo Rusni Lall Coondoo, asking him to notify
my wishes to the Durbar, as I felt it extremely likely that were
Bularam Singh alone to write, old Thangal might intrigue and throw
obstacles in the way to discredit him with me and the Durbar. The
minister’s letters were not answered, but I heard from Rusni Lall
Coondoo, [218]that he asked to see the Jubraj who had already
heard from Bularam Singh, but he was told that he was ill. After a
great deal of delay an interview was accorded, and though he appeared
quite well, the Jubraj said he was too ill to come, but would send a
younger brother. Feeling sure that there was nothing to prevent his
coming, I sent a message of sympathy, also to say, that I would wait at
Bissenpore till he recovered. I knew perfectly well that all this story
had emanated from Thangal Major’s brain, and that I was to be
subjected to inconvenience and want of courtesy, in order to snub his
colleague. He had suffered from a sore foot which prevented his coming
to Jeeree Ghât to meet me and he could not forgive Bularam Singh
for having taken his place. The Jubraj ought to have known better, but
among natives any slight offered to a superior is an enhancement to
one’s own dignity, so from this point of view he would gain in
his own estimation.

On the morning of October 30th, as soon as I was dressed, I saw
Thangal Major outside my hut. I heard afterwards that, directly my
decision had been communicated to the Durbar, he had volunteered to
come out, and as he said, bring me in. When we had had a little
friendly conversation, he with his usual bluntness, which I did not
object to, asked me to go in, saying that the Wankai Rakpa1
would meet me, the Jubraj being ill. I firmly declined, saying that I
would wait till he recovered. He then assured me that the real cause
was the critical state of the Jubraj’s wife. I doubted the truth,
but a lady being in the case, courtesy and good feeling [219]demanded that I should accept the statement as
an excuse, and I therefore said I would leave, if the Wankai Rakpa and
another prince met me on behalf of the Jubraj. This was at once agreed
to, and I therefore marched off, being met in great state by the two
princes, who rode by my side all the way. As I neared the capital, a
vast crowd came out to meet me, the numbers increasing at every step,
and I was received with every demonstration of respect and sympathy,
many of those who knew my wife showing a delicacy of feeling that
greatly moved me. Old Thangal, when I met him, spoke very kindly on the
subject, saying, “It is sad to see you return alone, and we know
what it must be to you.” Numberless were the enquiries by name
after all the children. At last I reached the Residency, where my old
attendants were ready to do all they could for me. It was something
like home, old books, furniture, children’s toys, still here and
there, and in a corner of the verandah my little girl’s litter,
in which she was carried out morning and evening, but the faces that
make home were away.

I mention the foregoing incident regarding the Jubraj, as it is a
good example of the small difficulties connected with etiquette, that
one has to contend with in a place like Manipur. The question is far
more important than it seems. Any relaxation in a trifling matter like
this, seems to Asiatics a sign that you are disposed to relax your
vigilance in graver questions. Indeed, to a native chief, etiquette
itself is a very grave matter, and many terrible quarrels have arisen
from it. I well remember a slight being offered to the Viceroy, because
a Rajah [220]fancied he had not received all the honours due
to him.

I found a crop of small difficulties awaiting me in Manipur, the
Durbar, and especially old Thangal, had got out of hand, and had to be
pulled up a little. There were numberless complaints from British
subjects of petty oppression which had to be listened to, and I felt it
rather hard having this unpleasant duty to perform just after my
return; but it was duty, and had to be done, and by dint of firmness,
combined with courtesy, I soon set things right, but Thangal Major
rather resented the steady pressure which I found it necessary to
apply.

Before leaving Manipur in 1881, I had sent off some Manipuris to
Cawnpore to learn carpet making and leather work. When I returned,
these men had long been making use of their knowledge in Manipur, and I
found that first-rate cotton carpets and boots, shoes and saddles of
English patterns, had been manufactured for the Maharajah, the
workmanship being in all cases creditable, and in that of the carpets
most excellent.

I tried to send men to Bombay to learn to make art pottery, and the
Maharajah was at one time anxious about it, but the correspondence with
the School of Art was conducted in so leisurely a manner on their side,
extending over nearly a year, that he got tired of it, and declined to
send the men. I had a little pottery made in Manipur, which I brought
home with me, the only existing specimens of an art that died out in
its infancy.

I had several pieces of silver work made to try the mettle of the
Manipuri silversmiths, one bowl, a [221]most perfect copy of a
Burmese bowl with figures on it in high relief, was beautifully
executed, and still excites the admiration of all who see it.

The Mussulman population of Manipur, was descended from early
immigrants from India, Sylhet, and Cachar, who had married Manipuri
wives; they numbered about 5000, and were rather kept under by the
Durbar, but to nothing like the same extent that Hindoos would have
been under a Mussulman Government. Formerly, they had to prostrate
themselves before the Rajah like other subjects, but they having
represented that this was against their religion, Chandra Kirtee Singh
excused them from doing it, allowing a simple salaam instead. They,
(probably owing to their dependent position), were not such an
ill-mannered and disagreeable set as their co-religionists of Cachar,
and were generally quiet and inoffensive. The headman of the sect
received the title of Nawab from the Rajah. These men had a grievance
to bring forward when I returned, and I procured them some redress.

I visited the Maharajah in due course, and found him better than I
expected, and I took an early opportunity of announcing my return to
the Burmese authorities in the Kubo valley, receiving civil letters in
return. Unfortunately, I found that great soreness still prevailed in
Manipur on account of the non-settlement of the Kongal case, and I was
constantly on the alert lest evil results should follow, as I always
suspected old Thangal of a desire to make reprisals.

When I had a day to spare, I went to see my experimental garden and
fir wood, at Kang-joop-kool, [222]finding everything in a
flourishing state, the wood a tangled thicket, with foxgloves and other
English flowers growing in wild profusion. One morning when walking
out, I saw some prisoners going to work, and as they passed me, one or
two looked as if they would like to speak. I accordingly passed by them
again to give them an opportunity, when a man ran up and complained
that he was imprisoned without any definite period being assigned, a
common practice in Manipur. Another man, whom he called as a witness,
spoke good Hindoostani, and on my enquiring where he learned it, he
said he was a Manipuri from Sylhet. I sent for him directly I got home,
and he came with Thangal Major, and, as he was a British subject, and
the Durbar had no right to imprison him, I sent for a smith, and had
his irons struck off in my presence. I spoke quietly, but firmly to the
Minister, but showed him plainly that I would not stand having British
subjects imprisoned except by my orders. The man’s offence was
not paying a debt for which he was security, and the punishment was
just, according to the laws of Manipur, and would have been in England
before 1861. [223]

On the 26th of November, my old friend Lieutenant Dun
(now Major Dun, D.S.O.), joined me. Knowing I wanted a friend to cheer
me in my loneliness, he had very kindly accepted the permission of his
department to accompany me on a tour through the hills to the
north-east of Manipur. No European was more deservedly popular of late
years among all classes in Manipur, where he had visited me once or
twice before. I felt his kindness deeply, he was always a charming,
genial and highly intellectual companion, and many a long and tiring
march was cheered by his society. On the 2nd of December, we started on
a preliminary tour round the west and south of the valley, visiting the
Logtak lake, with its floating islands, its island-hill of Thanga, with
its orange gardens and place of exile, and large fishing establishment.
When I first arrived in Manipur, oranges were a rarity. Now, owing to
the enterprise of the Maharajah in planting trees, they were fairly
common, and here we were able to gather them. The orange tree is
capricious and all soils [224]will not suit it, and up to the
fifth or sixth year it is always liable to be attacked by a grub that
kills it, after that it becomes hardier. I never was very successful
with orange trees, though I took great pains with them. From the Logtak
lake, we marched to a place called Thonglel, in the hills, where we
were met by all the representatives of the Kukis in that direction,
thence to a place called Koombee, a settlement of Loees, low-caste
Manipuris. Afterwards we marched to Chairel on the main river into
which all the rivers of Manipur flow before it enters the hills to the
south of the valley. After visiting Shoogoonoo, a frontier post, we
returned to the capital, on December 11th, after a very pleasant tour
of one hundred and forty-six miles in nine marching days.

We next marched up the road to the Naga Hills, meeting the Chief
Commissioner, Mr. Elliott, at Mao, and returning with him to Manipur,
where the usual visits were exchanged. After a day or two’s halt,
the Chief Commissioner set out for Cachar and I accompanied him to the
frontier at Jeeree Ghât, returning to Manipur by forced marches.
The bridge over the Mukker had been broken by a fallen tree, but the
river, so formidable in the rains, was easily fordable. A short time
before reaching the summit of Kala Naga, a pretty little incident
occurred, which I have never forgotten. Some of my coolies were toiling
up the steep ascent with their loads, when two young Kukis met us with
smiling faces as if something had given them great pleasure. They
immediately made two of the men with me put down their loads, and took
them up [225]themselves to relieve the wearied ones. On my
enquiry who they were, they said they were friends of my coolies and
had come to help them. It was one of the prettiest sights I ever saw,
the pleasure the two men seemed to derive from doing a kind act. Dun
and I reached Manipur on the 10th of January. Soon after my return, in
fact before the evening, a Lushai was brought to me who had been found
in the jungle with his hands tightly fastened together by a bar of iron
fashioned into a rude pair of handcuffs. He appeared to be mad, but
harmless, and had probably been kept in confinement by his own people
and had escaped. I had the irons taken off, and ordered him to be cared
for, but he soon ran off in the direction of his own country.

On the 21st of January, Dun and I set off on our tour through the
Tankhool country. We marched viâ Lairen and
Noongsuangkong, already described. The country had been surveyed, but
the surveyors had taken names of villages given by men from the Naga
Hills district, and they were unrecognisable to the native inhabitants.
Much of my march, after leaving Noongsuangkong, was through a new
country, and a very interesting and lovely country it was. The benefits
of being under a strong government were evident in the peace that
reigned everywhere. The Manipuri language also had spread, and in some
villages seemed to be used by every one, while in others even children
understood it. It was evidently the common commercial language.

On the 26th, we halted on the Lainer river, the large village of
Gazephimi being far above us at some miles distant. It was late in the
afternoon but [226]Dun wanted to see all he could, and accompanied
by some hardy Manipuris started. They all returned in a suspiciously
short space of time, just at nightfall, Dun having astonished every one
by his marching powers. He described the villagers as a surly, morose
set, the description always given of them.

On January 28th we reached Jessami, a fine village of the Sozai
tribe; they much resembled the Mao people. They crowded round us and
were much pleased when we showed them our watches, and allowed them to
feel our boots and socks. Some of the houses were large and well
stocked with rice. One old man took us into his house and showed us a
shield carefully wrapped up in cloth that bore the tokens of his having
slain fifteen people. The village contained no skulls, and our friends
told us that they obeyed orders and killed no one. We enquired about
the snowy peak of Saramettie, which was visible from some point not far
distant, but the people assured us that they
had never heard of it.

On the 29th, some Metomi men came in with a young man who acted as
interpreter, he having been captured, and then kept as a guest in
Manipur for some time, to learn the language, by Bularam Singh, who was
the Minister accompanying me. He seemed quite pleased to see his old
host. The Metomi people were a strange set, quite naked, except for a
cloth over the shoulders in cold weather. They are slighter built than
the Angamis and Tankhools. They could count up to one hundred, and
three of their numerals, four, six and seven, are the same as in the
Manipuri language. They wear their hair [227]cut across the
forehead like some of the tribes in Assam. Their patterns of weaving
rather resembled those of the Abors and Kasias, but were finer. They
wore ear-rings of brass wire very cleverly made, the wire being
imported through other tribes.

On the 31st, having heard that I should be well received, Dun and I
started for Metomi, with an escort of Manipuris. We first made a
descent of 2000 feet to the Lainer, which we forded, the water being
knee deep; there were the remains of a suspension bridge for use in the
rainy season. We then ascended for about 1000 or 1500 feet, till near
the village, when I halted my men and sent on my Angami interpreter,
and one of the Metomi men, to ask that a party might come down to
welcome us, as I had reason to think that the villagers were undecided
as to what they should do, and I feared to frighten them. After waiting
a long time, we heard a war-cry, and we all started to our feet and
seized our arms, in case of an attack; the next minute, however, there
was another cry, showing that the people were carrying loads. Soon
after a long line of men appeared, each carrying a small quantity of
rice, and the heads of the village came forward, presenting us with
fowls, and heaped up the rice in front of me. We then walked on to the
village, distant about a mile and a quarter, along an avenue of
pollarded oaks, backed by fir trees. At last, after passing a ditch and
small rampart, we reached the outer gate, then passed along a narrow
path, with a precipice to our right, and a thick thorn hedge to our
left for about eighty yards, as far as the inner gate, on entering
which we found ourselves in the [228]village. We were then led
along a series of winding streets till we came to the highest part.

This was the most picturesque Naga village I have ever seen, and
reminded me of an old continental town, the ground it covered, being
very hilly, and the houses, constructed of timber with thatched roofs
with the eaves touching one another, built in streets. Sometimes one
side of a street was higher than the other, and the upper side had a
little vacant space railed in, in front of the houses.

The houses were more like those of the Tankhools than the Angamis,
and contained round tubs for beer cut out of a solid block of wood, in
shape like old-fashioned standard churns. The village contained pigs
and dogs, and the houses were decorated with cows’ and
buffaloes’ horns. We were welcomed in a friendly way, but our
hosts did not seem to like the idea of our staying the night, of which
we had no intention. Our watches and binoculars greatly interested
them. We tried in vain to induce the women to come out, the men saying
they feared lest we should seize them. This seemed very strange, as it
was the only hill village I ever saw where the women had the slightest
objection to appear. As the Manipuris always respect women, it could
not be due to their presence, even had they had experience of them,
which was not the case. On leaving the village, we passed through a
splendid grove of giant bamboos, and then turned into our old path
again. Metomi was said to contain seven hundred houses, but that seemed
to me a very low estimate. We reached our camp near Jessami at 7
P.M., narrowly escaping a severe scorching, as
some torch-bearers who came [229]to meet us, set fire to the grass
prematurely, and we had to run hard to escape the flames. I wanted to
make a vocabulary of the Metomi language the next day, but the whole
village had a drinking bout, and every one was incapacitated during the
rest of our stay.

We marched to a place called Lapvomai on February 3rd, and next day,
wishing to explore the country beyond, Dun and I, with a picked party
of Manipuris, crossed the ridge above the village, and descending to
the stream below, began the ascent of the great Eastern range,
encamping in a most lovely spot in a pine forest. Every one was too
tired to search for water, so the Manipuris went supperless to bed. Dun
and I had brought a supply, which we shared with our few Naga
followers, the Manipuris being prevented from doing the same, by their
caste prejudices. Early next morning we started up the hill again,
leaving the bulk of our party a mile or two in advance of our halting
place, to search for water and cook. We, with two or three plucky
Manipuris, whom hunger and thirst could not induce to leave us, pursued
our upward path. At last we came on patches of snow, and in a hollow
tree found the remains of a bear which had gone there to die. After a
toilsome ascent, often impeded by a thick undergrowth of thorny bamboo,
we, having long passed the region of fir trees, reached the summit at
8000 feet, only to find, to our great disappointment, a spur from the
main range blocking our view. As this range might have taken another
day to surmount, and after all be only the precursor of another, we
reluctantly traced our steps backwards, and reached [230]our
party who found water and cooked their food. We witnessed some amusing
instances of rapid eating, on the part of our hungry followers, who had
well deserved their dinner. We then descended to the stream, and
encamped on its banks after being on foot for eleven hours.

Next day, we marched to our old encampment at Lapvomai. On
February 7th, we marched to Wallong, passing
through lovely scenery, a series of deep valleys and ravines and high
hills, with a splendid view down the valley of Thetzir and Lainer, and
beyond, the junction of the latter with its north-eastern confluent, we
finally encamped close to a very remarkable gorge. On the 8th, we had
another march to the village of Lusour, where I greatly pleased a woman
and some children, by giving them red cloths, the former would have
denuded herself to put hers on, had I not prevented her. Next morning,
before starting, we had our breakfast in public, and ordered some
boiled eggs; the hill people are supremely indifferent to the age of an
egg, and even seem to think the richness of flavour enhanced by age, so
that almost all brought to us were either addled or had chickens in
them. At least two dozen were boiled before we found one that we could
eat, and as soon as an egg was proved to be bad, there was a great rush
of Tankhools to seize the delicacy, and our bad taste in not liking
them gave great satisfaction.

On February 9th, we reached Somrah, a most interesting but severe
march of eighteen miles. We first crossed a ridge 8000 feet in height,
where among other trees we found a new species of
yew—[231]Cephalotaxus. After reaching the
summit, we made a gradual descent along an exceedingly steep hillside,
where a false step would have landed us in the stream 2000 feet below.
After this we descended more rapidly, and, crossing a stream, followed
a beautifully constructed watercourse through some recently cleared
land. We traced our way along its windings for some miles, and then,
after another ascent, at last came to a lovely undulating path through
a forest of firs and rhododendrons, the latter just coming into flower.
The path at length, after an ascent of 200 feet, brought us to the
village, a finely built one of the regular Tankhool type, with over two
hundred houses, built with stout plank walls, and having an appearance
of much comfort.

The next day we went to Kongailon, one of the Somrah group, making a
descent of 2000 feet to cross a river, and again ascending 5600 feet.
We passed many skilfully constructed watercourses and much terrace
cultivation, indeed, the Somrah villages have the finest system of
irrigation I have ever seen, and the long parallel line of watercourses
on a hillside present a most remarkable appearance. At Kongailon, we
halted a day to explore the country, and receive deputies from various
villages. From the ridge behind the village, at a height of from 7000
to 8000 feet, there was a fine view of the Somrah basin—valley it
cannot be called; it is a huge basin, the rim of which consists of
hills, having an average height of over 8000 feet, the villages being
on the inner slopes or on bold spurs.

On February 12th, a very severe march took us to [232]Guachan, a miserable-looking village full of
very dirty people, many of whom were naked, their bodies being covered
with a thick coating of dirt. We had to halt next day to rest the
coolies, and to have a path cleared ahead. On February 14th, we again
started, halting on the Cherebee river, at a height of 4400 feet. On
our way, while passing along a lovely ridge, covered with rhododendrons
in flower, we had a fine view of Saramettie, with its snow cap.

Next day, we marched over Kachao-phung, 8000 feet high, and encamped
on its slopes at 7600 feet. So perverse are the ways of the hill-men,
that the road, a well-used one, was carried within fifty feet of the
summit, though it would have been easy to cross at a much lower level.
We encamped in a primeval forest of huge trees, the branches of which,
moved by the fierce wind that blew all night, waved to and fro with
such a threatening noise as to preclude sleep for a long time.

On the evening of the 12th, one of our coolies was brought to me,
who had dislocated his shoulder. We had no doctor of any kind with us,
and no one who understood how to reduce it. Dun and I tried our utmost,
and I put the poor fellow under chloroform, to relax the muscles and
spare him pain, but, alas! with no result. I tried to induce him to go
to Manipur, and be treated by my native doctor there; but he objected,
and preferred going to his home; so I gave him a present and let him
go, and very sorry we were to see him relinquish his only chance of
getting right again. Every one ought to be taught practically to reduce
a dislocation; I had often heard [233]the process described, but
never seen it done, and my lack of experience cost the poor Naga the
use of his arm. It is one of the saddest parts of one’s life in
the wilds of India to meet cases of sickness and injury without the
power to give relief. Simple complaints I treated extensively, and with
great success, but it was grievous to see such suffering in more
complicated cases, and to be unable to do anything. A skilful and
sympathetic doctor has a fine field for good work in such regions. A
sick savage is the most miserable of mortals.

The good points of the Manipuris, as excellent material for hardy
soldiers, were brought out very prominently on these long marches. No
men could have borne the fatigue and hardships better or more patiently
than they did. It quite confirmed me in the opinion I had long since
formed that, taken every way, the Manipuris were superior to any of the
hill-tribes around them. I remember that when at Jessami, one of the
Manipuris, at my suggestion, challenged any Naga, who liked, to a
wrestling match, none would come forward, though the villagers were a
fine sturdy set. It was impossible, also, to help noticing, as we went
along, the very remarkable aptitude the Manipuris possess for dealing
with hill-tribes. The Burmese tried in vain to subdue the Tankhools,
and in one case a force of seven hundred men, that they sent against
them, was entirely annihilated. However, as the Manipuris advanced, the
different tribes, after one struggle, quietly submitted, and on both
occasions when I marched through the north-eastern Tankhool country,
the people were in admirable order, and behaved [234]as
if they had always been peaceful subjects of Manipur.

Next morning, though the thermometer was at thirty-six degrees, the
Manipuris felt the cold so severely from the terrible wind that had
been blowing all night, that they did not attempt to cook before
marching, but started off and hurried down the hill to get to a warmer
region. I never knew the hardy fellows do this before, and it shows the
influence of a piercing wind in making cold felt, as I have often seen
them quite happy on a still night with the thermometer at twenty-six
degrees or lower.

Five more marches brought us to Kongal Tannah, where I encamped on
the ground we occupied in 1881–1882 when I was Boundary
Commissioner. On our way, we received a visit from Tonghoo, the
redoubtable Chussad chief, now a peaceful subject of Manipur, a man of
the usual Kuki type, imperturbable and inscrutable. Next day, I
inspected the boundary pillars I had set up, and found them intact, a
satisfactory proof that the settlement was not unacceptable to either
Manipur or Burmah.

We marched back by the old route, encamping as we had done more than
four years before in the deep valleys of the Maglung and Turet. On the
24th, from the crest of the Yoma range, we saw the valley of Manipur
once more at our feet, and in the evening encamped at Ingorok. Next
day, I parted from my friend, I riding into Manipur, and Dun going
north for a few days’ more survey of the country. He rejoined me
on March 2nd. Thus ended one of the hardest, but, at [235]the
same time, one of the pleasantest marches I ever made, all the
pleasanter for the society of such a clever and charming companion. We
spent one more week together, and then Dun went back to his appointment
in the Intelligence Department, to my great regret, and I settled down
to my usual routine work, constantly varied by interesting little
episodes. [236]

During the spring of 1885, I had constant trouble with
Thangal Major; the old man was perpetually doing illegal acts. He had
lost his head during my absence in England, and though treated with
every courtesy, he greatly resented being called to order. Some
Mussulmans had complained to Mr. Elliott about the oppression exercised
towards them, and in my absence Thangal was foolish enough to imprison
them. Of course, I heard of it, and insisted on their release, and this
weakened his authority. Again, he, as “Aya Pooiel,”
i.e. Minister for Burmese Affairs, greatly resented our not
having settled the Kongal case, and insisted on the authors being
punished. We were very good friends privately, though I always expected
further trouble with him. The Maharajah’s ill health also gave me
anxiety, as he was no longer the active man he once was, and was daily
falling more and more under Thangal’s influence.

At last matters came to a crisis. On May 23rd, I received a letter
from the Burmese authorities at Tamu, brought by a deputation reporting
that [237]some murders had been committed by Manipuri
subjects, and the next day when the visitors came to see me, they
openly accused the Mombee Kukis of having done the deed. I felt sure
that the outrage had been carried out at the instigation of Thangal
Major, as a set-off against the Kongal case, and I sent for him. He
came to see me on May 25th, and, when I opened the subject, he assumed
rather a jaunty air. I spoke very gravely, and told him that it was a
very serious business, and that an investigation must take place, and
that I wished him, as Aya Pooiel, to accompany me. He replied in a very
unbecoming manner, and began to make all sorts of frivolous excuses,
the burden of his speech being that, as justice had not been done in
the Kongal case, there was no need to investigate a case brought by the
Burmese. I was very calm, and remonstrated several times, but seeing
that it had no effect, I requested him to leave my presence, which he
did. I then wrote to the Maharajah asking him to appoint Bularam Singh
to aid me in the investigation, also reporting Thangal’s conduct,
and saying that I could not allow him to attend on me till he had
apologised. The worst of Thangal’s behaviour was, that he spoke
in Manipuri, and in the presence of the Burmese messengers, who
understood it, instead of in Hindoostani which no one but myself
understood. Thinking carefully over the matter, I wrote to the
Maharajah on May 26th, requesting him to replace Thangal in the Aya
Pooielship by another officer, suggesting Bularam Singh, as I did not
consider it safe to leave him in charge of the Burmese frontier.
[238]

There was the greatest opposition offered to my request, and the
Maharajah made every effort to evade it. It was currently stated by
people in the Court circle that it would be easier to depose the
Maharajah himself, but I remained firm. Meanwhile, Bularam Singh was
appointed to accompany me, and, on June 8th, I left for Moreh Tannah,
near Tamu, halting the first day at Thobal. Before leaving, I received
an apologetic letter from Thangal, and later he called on me, and made
an ample apology, speaking very nicely. I accepted the apology
personally, quite reciprocating his friendly sentiments, but told him
that, having acted in the way he did, I could not trust him as Aya
Pooiel.

I reached Moreh Tannah on June 13th, and was visited by some
Burmese. The next day, I proceeded to the scene of the murder, and
exhumed two headless bodies, and took evidence regarding the raid.
Before reaching Manipur, I heard through some Kukis the most convincing
proofs that the Mombee people had committed the raid, and at Thangal
Major’s instigation. I obtained all the necessary details later
on, but the Burmese war prevented my undertaking an expedition for the
release of some Burmese captives who had been carried away and sold,
though I accomplished it later on.

At Moreh Tannah, I obtained some excellent mangoes, the only ones
free from insects that I ever saw on the eastern frontier, those in
Assam and Manipur being so full of them as to be uneatable when ripe,
though beautiful to look at. Here also I had most unpleasant evidence
of the existence of a plant that has the smell of decomposed flesh. I
[239]imagined that a dead body had been buried under
the temporary hut I lived in, till a Manipuri explained matters to me,
and showed me the plant in question.

I reached Manipur on June 20th, and a day or two after wrote to the
Maharajah, calling to mind my letter respecting the Aya Pooielship, and
again requesting Thangal’s removal. The next day the old fellow
called, and we had a very friendly interview, and I explained my
reasons for acting as I had done. He seemed convinced, and rose and
seized my hand, and said, “You are right. I understand
thoroughly.” He then said he would cheerfully submit, and went
away in an apparently excellent frame of mind. It is said that after
this, his son, Lumphél Singh, a very bad young man, talked him
over and urged him to resist, but, anyhow, he soon after went to see
the Maharajah, and recanted all he had said to me. However, I was
determined to persist, and told the Maharajah plainly that he must
choose between me and Thangal, with the result that he consented, and
the Aya Pooielship was given to another.

This struggle caused me great regret, as Thangal had many good
qualities, and but for his having had his own way too much during my
absence in England, would never have lost his head as he did. However,
there was one good result, as I established very friendly relations
with the Burmese authorities, who saw that I wished to be just, and
this stood me in good stead when the war broke out.

During the whole time that the dispute was going on, I had the
support of the Jubraj, who said I was [240]in the right, and
most people, I believe, thought likewise. All the same it was painful
to gain a victory over one who had worked well with me for years, more
especially as I felt that the weakness of our own Government in not
insisting on justice being done in the Kongal case, had given him some
justification in his own eyes, though this was a plea that I could
never admit.

In October 1885, I went to Shillong to see the Acting Chief
Commissioner, Mr. Ward, and as he was intending to march through
Manipur on his way to the Naga Hills, I stayed with him, and we all
left Shillong together on November 4th. We left Cachar on November
12th, and halted that evening at Jeeree Ghât, I on the Manipuri
side of the river, the Chief Commissioner and his following on the
British. A short time before dinner—we were all Mr. Ward’s
guests—I received a note from him, directing my attention to a
telegram, and asking me to act on it. The telegram was a startling one,
and was to the effect that war with Burmah was to commence, and that
our troops would pass the frontier on a certain date; that there were
nine European and many native British subjects in the employ of the
Bombay-Burmah Corporation in the Chindwin forests with whom it had been
impossible to communicate, and to ask me to make every effort to let
them know the facts, and to do anything I could to assist them. The
matter was extremely urgent, as, if I remember rightly, the 25th was
the day for the troops to enter Upper Burmah, and every moment was of
the utmost importance. [241]

I thought it over for five minutes, and determined on a course of
action, and set to work at once to follow it out. I knew perfectly well
that with the frontier and all roads so carefully guarded, as I had
seen those in the Kubo valley to be, there was absolutely no chance of
a secret messenger advancing ten miles on Burmese soil, and I therefore
resolved to send my letter through the Kendat Woon (Governor of
Kendat), the great Burmese province of which the Kubo valley was part.
I wrote a letter to the European employés of the Bombay-Burmah
Corporation, giving the message I was asked to transmit, and urging
them to make every effort to accept my hospitality and protection in
Manipur. To this letter I appended Burmese and Manipuri translations,
and put them in an open envelope addressed in the three languages,
hoping and believing that, seeing that the contents were the same in
both languages, which they had the means of understanding, the Burmese
authorities would, on the principle of the Rosetta stone, assume that I
had said the same in English.

This done, I enclosed the envelope in a letter to the Kendat Woon,
in which I told him exactly how matters stood, and that in a short time
Burmah would be annexed, and urging him, as he valued the goodwill of
the conquerors, to make every effort to protect and aid the British
subjects in his province. I asked him to deliver the letter, to which I
had appended translations that he might read what I said, and to bear
in mind that any service he might render would be richly rewarded and
never forgotten, while he might rely on my [242]word
as his well-wisher; that a terrible punishment would befall any one who
injured a hair of the head of a British subject. In addition to this, I
wrote letters to the Burmese authorities at Tamu, with whom I was on
friendly terms, begging them, as they valued their lives, and my
goodwill, to forward the letter to the Woon with all possible
speed.

This done, I went to dine with the Chief Commissioner, and when he
asked if I had received his note, I told him I had acted on it. Feeling
that I had done all that I could for the best, I took no further steps
at the time than to issue orders to the Manipuri frontier stations, to
give all aid requisite to fugitives from Burmah, and to make
arrangements for their being entertained in Manipur, should they arrive
in my absence.

I heard afterwards that there was great anxiety in Burmah when it
was known that I had communicated with our isolated countrymen through
the Burmese authorities, it being regarded as likely to seal their
fate.

I marched to Mao on the Naga Hills frontier with the Chief
Commissioner, and then returned to Manipur, arriving on the 4th, and on
the 5th heard from Moreh Tannah that a European was being kept a
prisoner at Kendat. I wrote at once to the Tamu Phoongyee, asking him
to use his influence to release him, saying that I was in a position to
march to his aid in case my letter had no effect.

On December 9th, I heard that all the Europeans at Kendat had been
murdered, the Queen of Burmah’s secretary having arrived with one
hundred regular troops on a steamer and ordered their execution, and
[243]that forty of the Bombay-Burmah
Corporation’s elephants and all their native followers had been
arrested.

On December 10th, the news of the capture of Mandalay arrived. It
gave immense satisfaction, and it was said that many of the old people,
who knew what Burmah was, were so pleased that they could not eat their
dinners. The Jubraj visited me to offer his congratulations, and a
salute of thirty-one guns was fired. [244]

On December 17th, I at last received a letter from Mr.
A. J. Morgan, the chief agent of the Bombay-Burmah Corporation at
Kendat, acknowledging my letter of November 12th. He told me that three
Europeans, Messrs. Allan, Roberts and Moncur, had been murdered on the
River Chindwin by the Queen’s Secretary; that he and Messrs.
Ruckstuhl and Bretto had been protected by the Kendat Woon, and four
others by the Mengin Woon. He said the Chindwin valley was filling with
dacoits, i.e., brigands, and that their position was very
precarious. I at once wrote to the Woon thanking him warmly for the
protection he had accorded to my fellow-subjects, and sent him a pair
of handsome double-barrelled guns, one of them a rifle, as a present,
also five hundred rupees, which I asked him to give to Mr. Morgan.

Feeling certain of the dangerous position of the British subjects at
Kendat, if they were surrounded by disbanded soldiery who had turned
brigands, I determined to march to the frontier, so as to be ready to
give aid, if necessary. I accordingly asked the Maharajah to lend me
400 Manipuris, and 500 Kukis, [245]and one mountain gun. With
these, and fifty men of my escort of the 4th Bengal Infantry, under
Subadar Baluk Ram Chowby, I marched off on December 19th.

My escort consisted of sixty men of all ranks, but I weeded out ten
as not likely to stand the severe marches we might have to undertake. I
then paraded the remainder and addressed them, saying that any man who
felt himself unfit for service might fall out, and I should think none
the worse of him. All stood fast, and then I said, “Now, I will
not take you, unless you promise me not to fall sick, till you have
escorted me back safely to Manipur.” The men gave a shout of
acclamation, and I gave the order to march, and never had I better,
braver or more devoted men under me, or men who bore hardship and want
of all the little comforts of life more cheerfully.

We reached Moreh Tannah, where I had intended to halt and watch
events, on December 23rd, and there I received a letter from Mr.
Morgan, who described the state of things at Kendat as daily getting
worse, and expressed his conviction that if the dacoits reached Kendat,
the Woon would be unable to hold his own; he therefore hoped I might be
able to afford them the aid they so sorely needed, as, unless a force
marched to their assistance speedily, their lives would not be safe. On
hearing this, I determined to march for Kendat at once, and by the
rapidity of our movements overcome all resistance; indeed, not to allow
the Burmese time to think of it. Accordingly we marched to Tamu, where
the authorities at once submitted, and I declared the country
[246]annexed, and reappointed the old officials,
pending further orders, promising my protection to all classes, and
calling on the people to complain at once if any of my followers
injured them.

All this done, we marched to Mamo, some miles beyond Tamu, where we
halted in the rice fields attached to the village which was very
strongly stockaded. My camp was at once filled with men, women and
children, all disposed to be friendly and all willing to receive little
presents. It was a pretty feature of the Kubo valley, as of Upper
Burmah generally, and as in Assam formerly, that immediately on leaving
the village cultivation you plunged at once into forest.

My party was not so numerous as I could have wished. The Minister,
Bularam Singh, accompanied me, but the nine hundred men all told, that
I had asked for, were not there, and the supply of provisions was
scanty. I made all my escort take ten days’ food per man, with
orders not to touch it, without my direct permission, and I procured
supplies wherever I could, as we went along. I also
took a large supply of money.

As Bularam Singh was holding the appointment formerly held by
Thangal, he had not the knowledge to help him in all petty details that
the other would have had. However, realising more keenly than ever from
my experience at the relief of Kohima, the extreme value of time, and
of rapid strokes, I pushed on at all hazards, trusting to have my
numbers made up.

I had a few first-rate Manipuri officers with me, and my old
orderlies, Sowpa, Thutot, and Sundha. [247]I took my excellent
hospital assistant, Lachman Parshad, and my Manipuri secretary and
interpreter, Chumder Singh, and most of my old chuprassies, who were
invaluable. My head clerk, Rusni Lall Coondoo, was unfortunately on
leave, marrying his daughter, and I greatly missed him.

On the morning of December 24th, we started from Mamo, determined to
reach Kendat next day, though the Burmese said it was absolutely
impossible to do it. I had with me my escort of fifty men of the
4th B.I., and between three hundred and four hundred Manipuris, the
Kukis not having arrived. The old road had been disused, and our path
was a perfect zigzag. We halted long after sunset at Pendowa on a small
stream, the Nunparoo. The mountain gun did not arrive, and half our
force was not up till midnight. When all the coolies had arrived, I
told them that if we reached Kendat next evening, they should have
buffalo to eat.

The country through which we had passed was not naturally a
difficult one, but there had been no attempt to make it good, and in
places it was very bad, all the more so from the unnecessary number of
times that we crossed the same river. I was much interested to see
large numbers of bullock carts in the villages, such not being used in
Manipur.

Next morning, we started early, and soon began to ascend the
Ungocking hills. This seemed endless, one range succeeded another, here
and there we saw coal cropping out of the hillside. After about 12.30
P.M., the path was alternately along the bed of
a stream and over high ridges, one of those meaningless, [248]winding roads that seem made expressly to
irritate people with no time to spare. At last, in the far distance, we
saw a scarped hill, that was said to be close to Kendat, and cheered by
the sight, we pressed on, but it was hours before we reached the goal.
About 4 P.M., I met a Burmese, who spoke
Hindoostani, and gave me a letter from Mr. Morgan, telling me that he
and his party were all well, and earnestly longing for our arrival. The
man told me that he was the “Hathée Jemadar,”
i.e., the man in charge of the elephants, and he accompanied
us.

At last, just after sunset we reached the Chindwin river, even then,
in the dry season, six hundred yards wide. We gave a loud cheer and
hoisted the Union Jack; and the “Hathée Jemadar”
went over to tell the Europeans we had come to save, of our arrival.
All my escort and most of the Manipuris marched in with me; every man
had done his best and hearty were the congratulations that passed
between us.

We had marched sixty-five miles over a terribly rough country, the
last thirty being quite impassable for even laden mules, in thirty
hours. A havildar of the 4th said, “Sahib, is not our march one
of the greatest on record?” I told him that it was. It was
pleasant to think that we had arrived on Christmas Day. How little my
children in England realised the way I was employed.

In less than an hour Mr. Morgan, who had seen our arrival, came over
accompanied by Messrs. Ruckstuhl and Bretto, his subordinates, all
dressed in Burmese costume, everything they had having been plundered
in the Woon’s absence. Mr. Morgan brought over a message from the
Woon to me, saying that he [249]submitted to my authority, and
would come over to-morrow, and tender his formal submission.

Next day he appeared with Mr. Morgan and made his submission. He was
a dignified old man, with a pleasant face expressive of much character.
I thanked him on behalf of Government for his services in protecting
British subjects, and told him that, while assuming charge of the
country on the part of the British Government, I wished him to remain
in office, and conduct the administration pending definite
instructions. I told him that I expected him to maintain order, and
quiet down the country, and promised him any assistance which he might
require to aid him in the endeavour.

After this, I set to work to secure supplies with Mr. Morgan’s
aid, so as to be ready for any emergency, and then crossed the river
and called on the Woon and inspected the stockade, a huge enclosure,
420 yards long and 163 wide, with a wall of solid teak logs, 18 feet
high, and none less than a foot square, with strong heavy gates. I
returned to my camp before nightfall, and the mountain gun arrived
under the escort of Gour Duan Subadar. Next day, I heard that the
Mengin Woon had absconded, finding his position untenable.

Had I had a trained levy at my disposal, as would have been the case
had my advice been followed, I could have easily sent a force to occupy
Mengin, and might indeed have marched to Mandalay. As it was,
commanding only irregulars, my position was one of daily anxiety.

The site of Kendat was very picturesque, situated on the high left
bank of the Chindwin, up and down [250]which a view of many miles is
obtained, the reach being there a long one. The stockade contained the
greater part of the official residences, and a good proportion of the
inhabitants, but there were many houses outside, and temples and
phoongyes’ residences. Below the town was a large Manipuri
village, inhabited by the descendants of captives taken in the war of
1819–25.

In the rainy season, when the Chindwin is at its height, and 1200
yards wide, with the long ranges of the Manipuri Hills in the
background, the view is said to be very beautiful. For many miles round
Kendat, to the east of the Chindwin, the country is flat, but studded
here and there with strange-looking hills with scarped sides, that rise
abruptly out of the plains, calling to mind the hill-forests of Central
India. Kendat was well supplied with boats, many of them being most
elaborately carved.

It was a great misfortune that none of the men of my escort
understood the management of boats, a most useful accomplishment on the
eastern side of India, where rivers abound, and one in which the men of
the old Assam regiments used to be proficient. [251]

The Burmese were fairly friendly to us, though they
did not display any love for the Manipuris, and the latter showed
rather too plainly that they thought the tables were turned, and that
they now had the upper hand of the Burmese.

In many of the villages along our line of route in the Kubo valley,
we had observed crosses ready for the crucifixion of malefactors,
especially dacoits. These were also to be seen here and there, on the
banks of the river at Kendat, but the Woon afterwards told me that he
rarely crucified offenders and disliked employing torture; indeed he
had the reputation of being a merciful old man. However, the people at
large seemed quite to approve of strong measures, and knowing what
Burmese dacoits are capable of, I hardly wonder. After I left, the man
who introduced himself to me as “Hathée Jemadar”
incautiously surrendered to some dacoits, who first broke the bones of
his legs and arms inch by inch, and then ripped him up!

On the 28th December, I crossed the river with my [252]whole force, and entrenched myself on the
sandbank of the Chindwin. That evening, I heard from Mr. Morgan, that
there was a strong party opposed to the Woon, and greatly dissatisfied
with him for having submitted. Troops had been expected up the river
from the British force at Mandalay, and their delay encouraged the
Burmese to hold up their heads. Next day, December 29th, the air was
full of rumours, and some of the Burmese Manipuris, I have just alluded
to, plied my Manipuris with all sorts of stories, of a rising against
us, on the part of the Burmese. These stories had a great effect on the
Manipuris, and they displayed so much unsteadiness, and at the same
time such gross carelessness, that I determined to recross the river. I
heard too that six men coming to join me, had been killed, and three
wounded on the road, report said, by Burmese. I laughed at the idea, as
I was sure that the assailants were wild Chins, as the Burmese would
not show their hand prematurely. However, the news spread, and served
to dishearten the men.

On the 30th I transported my whole force to the opposite bank, it
cost me incredible trouble, and I had to superintend the most petty
details myself. I sent over a party to construct a stockade into which
the Manipuris could be penned like a flock of sheep for the night and
which I could enlarge afterwards, and I insisted on the work being
finished that day. It was finished, and last of all I crossed
the river with my escort.

Next day, Mr. Morgan told me that things had quieted down very much
among the Burmese; we did all in our power to collect provisions, and I
[253]enlarged the stockade, improving it from day to
day, till it at last became a commodious and strong defensive building,
scientifically constructed. I occupied a small stockade on a hillock
above it, whence I had a good view, and could overlook the Manipuris. I
had a circle of outlying pickets supplied by the Kuki irregulars with
me, and these were a perpetual safe-guard against surprise during the
long dark nights. We cleared the jungle from round our stockade, and
did all we could to make our position secure.

Still the Manipuris were a constant anxiety, illustrating the
well-known saying, “Fools rush in, where angels fear to
tread.” Their carelessness was astonishing. I had the utmost
difficulty in getting them to take the most ordinary precautions. The
bravest and best-disciplined troops in the world would never think of
neglecting every rule of warfare in the way that they did. Fire was a
constant danger, and having no warm clothes, the Manipuris could hardly
be prevented from lighting fires at night, thereby incurring a double
danger, viz., that of setting fire to the stockade, also lighting up
our position and enabling an enemy to fire at us. I was as a rule
eighteen or nineteen hours on foot out of the twenty-four, and during
the five or six allotted to sleep, I generally got up three times, to
see that all was right.

Provisions began to come in, and on the last day of the year, I sent
off 400 coolies to Moreh Tannah for provisions, so as to reduce the
useless mouths, and to lessen the danger from fire. I rebuilt all the
huts of green grass, as less inflammable than dry materials.
[254]

On January 1st, evil rumours were again afloat, and I asked the Woon
if he were sure of his position. He replied that he was, and had
perfect confidence that he could keep every one in hand. However, I
went on collecting provisions, and while hoping for the arrival of the
troops expected up the river, prepared for any eventuality. On January
3rd, large supplies of rice came in. The Issekai, an officer holding
the rank of major, came twice to see me, and all seemed well. Mr.
Morgan was with me all day helping with the rice sellers, but left
about 4 P.M. About an hour afterwards, he
reappeared with Mr. Bretto, saying that they had been shut out of the
stockade, but that Mr. Ruckstuhl was detained there. They suspected a
rising throughout the country, as a rumour had just been spread that a
Royal prince was about to arrive at Kendat with 3000 men.

This was bad news, and I begged Messrs. Morgan and Bretto to stay
the night with me. There was no time to be lost; I felt certain that
the country had risen, and that in a few hours our communications would
be cut, so I wrote to Manipur asking the Maharajah to send me 1000 men
under Thangal Major at once to Moreh Tannah, to await events, and 500
to join me at Kendat, also a good supply of provisions. I telegraphed
also to Government saying what had happened, and that I had taken every
precaution, and that they might rely on my doing all that man could. I
asked for no help, feeling that, if, with my present resources, I could
not retrieve my position, I should soon be past help. I also wrote a
few lines home, explaining matters in [255]case I was killed,
with a few last words to my children.

These letters I sent off by swift and trusty men well armed, with
orders to push on with all speed. Having done this, I prepared for a
life-and-death struggle next day.

As the morning broke and the heavy mist began to rise earlier than
usual, we speedily saw the changed aspect of affairs. We had secured
two boats under a guard the night before, but all besides had been
taken from our side of the river. All the people had left a
neighbouring village, but just below us we saw one boat after another
leaving, heavily laden with the inhabitants and their portable goods.
The opposite sandbank too, was occupied in force by the Burmese, who
held our former entrenchment, and one or two small stockades. By this
time also the country in our rear had risen, so we were completely cut
off. The opposite bank was crowded with large boats, giving every
opportunity to the enemy to send a strong party over to attack us by
night, were he so disposed.

Immediate action was necessary, if only to save the British
subjects, and the faithful Woon who had suffered in our cause. The good
old Minister, Bularam Singh, quite lost his nerve, and begged and
implored me to make terms and retreat, as the only means of saving
ourselves. I told him that my very children and friends would despise
me, if I, for a moment, contemplated such a course, and that there was
nothing for it but to fight it out.

“Which man should you respect most?” I said, “one
who cringed at your feet, or one who boldly [256]struck you?” “The man who struck
me,” he replied. “Exactly so,” I said; “and it
is the same with the Burmese. I intend to strike a hard
blow.”

I had an ultimatum written in Burmese, demanding the surrender of
the Woon, and his officers, and of all British subjects within two
hours, under pain of my attacking the stockade; this I did, to run as
little risk of injury to the captives, as possible. I had the ultimatum
tied to a bamboo, and sent in a boat to a shallow part of the river,
and I called to a Burmese to take it. This was done. I looked at my
watch, and when the time expired, opened fire on the stockade.

For the first time in my life, I laid a gun. I judged the distance
from the high bank where we stood, to the great stockade, to be 1250
yards, and the first shell went over it. I lessened the range by 50
yards, and again fired, and this time struck the stockade fair and
well. We saw and heard the shell explode, and our men raised a loud
shout of triumph. This little success gave the Manipuris renewed
confidence. I lined our bank with picked shots of the 4th B.I., and
under cover of these and the gun, sent two parties across in the boats,
with orders to attack and destroy all the small stockades, and to
capture some boats to convey more of our men across, and to burn all
the rest, so as to prevent the enemy assuming the offensive.

Mr. Morgan, eager for the fray, went as a volunteer and assumed the
natural position of leader. We kept up the fight all day. Shot after
shot struck the great stockade, all the small ones were captured and
burned, the enemy driven from the shore and [257]every boat within sight either brought over to
our side, or sent burning down the river.

Meanwhile, the Burmese had not been entirely passive, they had
opened an artillery fire on us, and one or one-and-a-half-pound shots
began to fall on our side. Old Bularam Singh walked up and down,
notwithstanding this, with the greatest indifference, having now
recovered his spirits, and behaved very well.

By sunset, nothing remained to be captured but the great stockade,
and many were the volunteers, both Hindoostanis and Manipuris who
begged to be allowed to cross once more and attack it. However, I would
not consent, only two men, Messrs. Morgan and Bretto, knew all the
turns and windings of the place, and one false move might convert our
success into a disaster. All the same, I felt terribly anxious as to
the fate of the Woon and of the British subjects.

I went to my hut in the evening, feeling that we had done all we
could. As I passed through the stockade, I was surprised to see the
clever way in which the coolies remaining with us had strengthened it,
by digging deep trenches sufficient to afford a man perfect protection
against rifle fire, even without the stockade.

I rose early on January 5th, after an anxious night, having given
orders for a party to be ready to cross the river with me, to attack
the great stockade; but, just as I left my hut to make a start, I was
met by Mr. Ruckstuhl with irons on his ankles—he had got rid of
the connecting bars—who told me that it had been evacuated. The
facts I learned were as follows. [258]

On the evening of January 3rd, incited by the near approach of three
thousand men and the promised support of the Tsawbwas of Thoungdoot,
Wuntha, Kubo, and six other districts, the bad spirits in the town rose
against the Woon, and put him and his family and chief officials, with
Mr. Ruckstuhl, in irons. It was only by a mistake that Messrs. Morgan
and Bretto were shut out of the stockade and not arrested.

When my ultimatum arrived, the Burmese laughed at the idea of my
doing anything, and when our fire opened on them they were just about
to crucify the Woon and Ruckstuhl. When, however, our attack began to
make an impression on them, and shells burst in the stockade,
especially one in a room where the chief men were deliberating, they
retreated, leaving their prisoners. Mr. Ruckstuhl had hidden under a
hedge, and the Woon and his family were taking refuge in a
Phoongye’s house. This was good news and an immense relief to
every one; we felt we had done our work.

I immediately took a party across the river and rescued the Woon,
and took possession of the huge stockade, which would have cost us many
a life to capture, had it been well defended. We took sixteen guns and
a large number of wall pieces, all said to have been wrested from
Manipur in former days.

The Woon’s house was apparently intact, but empty, and the
town was deserted. In a house we found a hen on a brood of chickens,
unmoved apparently by all the firing and commotion. I made over the
Woon’s house to him again, and I established a Manipuri guard for
his protection. With [259]reference to the guns, I should say that I
did not take them from the stockade on my first arrival at Kendat, not
wishing in any way to lower the prestige of the Woon who had done us
such good service, and who professed himself quite able to account for
them, and to keep the people in order. As events proved, we were quite
able to take them when necessary.

Just as we had finished our work, and Mr. Morgan and I were taking
some food in the afternoon, two steamers came in sight far down the
Chindwin. These proved to be the party sent to rescue the British
subjects at Kendat, under Major Campbell, 23rd Madras Infantry; and
consisted of a company of the Hampshire Regiment and some blue jackets,
and some of the 23rd Madras Infantry, and great was their
disappointment to find that the work had been done before they arrived.
However, had we waited for them, there would have been no one to rescue
on their arrival.

To my intense surprise, I heard that Kendat was to be abandoned, but
no arrangements had been made for carrying away the Native British
subjects. Mr. Morgan would not abandon these and the valuable property
of the Bombay-Burmah Corporation, and elected together with Mr. Bretto
to stay with me. I strongly urged Mr. Ruckstuhl (whose brother, one of
the refugees from Mengin, had been brought up by Major Campbell) to
leave for Rangoon with the steamers, as I thought, after twice narrowly
escaping a violent death, he had better run no more risks. He took my
advice. The steamers left on January 8th. [260]

We had gained immense prestige by the vigorous way in
which we had put down the revolt, and the people from the neighbouring
country began to come in and make their submission, but the departure
of the steamers was a great blow to it. Of course, the natives
attributed it to fear. Had they stayed, all trouble would have been at
an end, and the country would have quietly settled down. As it was,
this unfortunate retreat again upset the minds of all.