We were still admiring it when called to dinner, and there, in the bare walled turret room, was as neatly laid a table and as nice a small repast as any people need ever wish to sit down to. It had all been prepared on board the servants’ bunder-boat. We had no roasts, but fish, and stews, and curry, rice, fruit, and vegetables, all as well prepared as in the good kitchen at the Retreat. A saunter afterwards, and early to bed, my room as comfortable as in a warm climate was necessary, my own furniture in it, a shawl hung up against the unshuttered window to keep the land wind out and Fatima’s little cot close to the door.
Colonel Smith had begged us to get over the bar at the mouth of the river with the morning tide, which served very early, and would help us on in our course up it; we were then to make no delay on leaving the boats but to push on up the mountain to a certain place—Mowlie, I think—where we were to pitch our tents for the night; but my father preferred his own plans. The boats got over the bar, or we had others which were within the bar. I don’t know which—we went down to them I know in palanquins, and it was not a short trot; we had had our breakfast first very comfortably in the ruined tower, dressing leisurely, admiring the view, and gathering branches of oleander, almond, and other beautiful flowering shrubs unknown to me.
It was all so pleasant in the cool of the morning, but the river was very far from pleasant in the heat of the noon day; part of the way it was confined by high banks, which reflected the sun’s rays, and kept all air from us. We had not brought an awning, and the roof of the cabin soon heated thro’. It was really three or four hours of suffering. On landing, my Mother was so done up that the plan was again departed from, and instead of pushing on up the pass, we resolved on resting—to dine at the spot we had been warned against at the foot of the mountain, a pretty little plain facing the west, a rock rising behind it and enclosing it, a hot wind blowing. It was a foretaste of what awaits the doomed, rest there was none. Every stitch of clothes but a gingham wrapper I threw off me, tucked up the sleeves, opened the collar, pulled off my rings, took out my combs, which actually scorched my head, and, creeping below the table in my tent, lay there more dead than alive till the signal for moving was given; dinner was countermanded, and a little fruit welcomed instead. When we were to march my palanquin was so burning I could not breathe in it; they threw chatties of water over it, and up rose a steam worse than the scorching. We had to wait half an hour before I could bear its atmosphere.
At last we were off, and as the sun declined and the air cooled, and the ascending path brought the mountain breezes to us, I was able to look up and out, and enjoy the singular scene presented by our party.
A burra Sahib needs a large retinue when travelling in the East, or did need it years ago; all may be altered now that we hear of dawks,2 roads and railroads. First went Nasserwanjee on a tattoo (a little pony) leading us all, sword in hand, for the scabbard only hung gallantly by his side, the naked blade flourished at every turn above his head; next were some Sepoys or peons, then my Mother’s palanquin and her spare bearers, then mine and more peons, then my father’s, then the two Ayahs’; then the upper servants on ponies, but without swords; then under servants on foot or on bullocks; the luggage, tents, canteens, trunks, all on bullocks, peons and coolies running beside them to the number altogether of 50 or 60, with the beasts besides and our horses led. It was a long train winding round among the hills, always ascending and turning corners, and when night came on, and the torches were lighted and one was placed in about every fourth man’s hand—the effect was wonderfully beautiful, the flames waving as the arms moved, leaves, branches, rocks, gleaming in turn among the dusky train that wound along up the steep pathway. Daylight might not have been so picturesque, but it would have been far more suitable to the kind of journey, and the distance being considerable, many a weary step was taken before we reached our resting place.
It was near midnight when we came to three tents sent by General Robertson for our accommodation. All we wanted was soon ready, for a fire was there, burning in a furnace made of some stones, the usual travelling fire place. Our curry was reheated, I had near a bottle of beer, and my bed being ready by the time this supper was over, I was soon fast asleep in a region as wild as Glen Ennich.
My Mother was quite reconciled to our journey next morning, for a messenger arrived very early with two notes for my father, one from General Robertson, Colonel Robertson then, and one from Colonel Smith; they were notes of welcome, with directions, which warned by the sufferings of yesterday, we obeyed; very kind they were. Every body is kind in India—but it was not that that pleased my mother, it was the messenger. He was one of the irregular horse, a native, light made, handsomely dressed, in coloured trowsers, flowing robe, and yellow cap, I think, and he rode well and caracoled his little spirited horse before us for just as long as we pleased to look at him. She took it into her head that he was one of Colonel Smith’s regiment, which regiment was Heaven knows where—in Gujerat, I believe, so she asked Nasserwanjee for a rupee to give to him, and did the civil with the air of a Princess. She certainly, good, dear Mother, liked the role of the great lady.
After breakfast we started again on our somewhat perilous road. At least I sometimes trembled a little lest the palanquin bearers should make a false step but on they went through all, and by all, and over all safely, up the steep, very steep rises, down the sharp descents, round those dreadful corners revealing depths that made one shudder. On they went, with their short quick trot that seldom slackened, giving the regular grunt which apparently relieves the chest. They generally have a jar of water slung behind the palanquin a draught of which is the only refreshment I ever saw them take. Parts of this pass were finely wooded, parts bare and rocky, and fine though without water, no roaring cataract nor gliding stream. This is a great want in the landscape throughout India. A long ascent, just as dark, and then a stretch of level road, brought us to the end of our journey. A large double poled tent of Colonel Smith’s, which was to be lent to us during our stay on the hills and in which we found his servants and the table laid for dinner. He was himself dining at Colonel Robertson’s, so my Mother was able to scrutinise the premises. I was really ashamed of her behaviour. She walked here and there, observed the chairs, the lights, the table linen, and much admired the plate—‘Upon my word, Miss Grant, your Colonel is very handsomely supplied, there’s really nothing wanting.’ The words gave a sort of shock to me. It was the first time I had heard either her or my father connect the Colonel’s name with mine. I knew how all these attentions would end from that moment. We had a very good dinner very well served, and retired to our sleeping tents in great good humour. The night was so piercing cold we called for blanket after blanket, the chill of the water next morning was really painful; and as Fatima chose to take the dust of the journey out of my long, long hair outside the tent before I had all my warmer clothing on, I was really shivering. A canter however warmed me and gave me also a good view of the curious place we were settled on. A wide plain on the top of a long ridge of mountains, not much wood near us, but plenty all round, no rising either close at hand, with one exception, a hillock on which stood the Governour’s small bungalow, his and the Resident’s a little way off, were the only houses at the Station. Everybody else including the sick soldiers sent up there lived in tents, scattered about anywhere in groups of from three to five and six according to the size of each establishment. Riding, we came on the head of beautiful gullies far below us, stretching far out under the morning mist. We looked down on mountain tops, stood above wooded ravines, which made the scenery so curious.
The air was enchanting, the sun hot in the middle of the day, yet quite bearable, the mornings and evenings delightful, the nights rather cold. The society was on the pleasantest picknicky footing; the way of life most agreeable as soon as we got into it. The first few days we kept our Bombay hours, late dinners, and so on, therefore an exchange of calls with our neighbours was the extent of our intercourse. But as soon as we shew
ed ourselves well bred enough to conform to the habits of the place we got on merrily: dined at the Robertsons’ often, lunched here and there, gave little dinners and little luncheons, and went with parties to the only two lions that there were, the sources of some river and a hill fort. We had Mrs James Farquharson, poor Pauline, and her sister Mrs Simson. A fat man who amused us all, and a thin padre whom we must have amused, for he was always smiling; Sir Lionel Smith, and others.
One very disagreeable circumstance met us there, indeed accompanied us every where, my father’s unfortunate dispute with the Government. It had begun some weeks before, and arose thus. Some native case, about Ramchander something else, I may well remember the name, for goodness knows how many times I had to write it over, I often, in any hurry or on confidential affairs, clerked for my father, which had been before the Sudder for some length of time, was removed into the Supreme Court, where the opinion of the 3 Judges on its merits was in direct opposition to that of the Company’s.3 Before my father’s appointment, there had been serious misunderstandings between those two powers, each having been in some degree to blame. My father had been well ‘advised’ by the Board of Controul that it would be very agreeable to have these differences healed and that he could do nothing that would be better approved at home both by the Board of Controul and the Court of Directors than to put an end to these unseemly jarrings. The Bombay Government, anxious to support their own authorities, were delighted at the new Judge’s connexion with one of their own servants. Uncle Edward seized on my father at once, seconded by Mr Norris, telling their own version of Sir Edward West’s mistakes; but that little wasp with his King’s servants and his pomposity and his flattery of similar weakness, aided by the heavy weight of Sir Charles Chambers, got the upper hand of the Civil Service, and enlisted my father in right earnest on their own side. The Sudder Adawlut ordered one thing, the Supreme Court ordered another, the Governour in Council interfered, and the King’s Judges ignored the Government.
Mr Norris very unluckily had gone to the Neilgherries; the only Indian my father considered to have brains, a mistake rather, but he would take advice from no other. Mr Gardiner came to me one day in real alarm, he was acting Secretary then, to say that a most intemperate paper had been sent in by the 3 judges, and that as they were most decidedly in the wrong, on some points, serious disputes having grave results would be the consequence. I could not speak; he did without effect; I tried my Mother, but she as usual was on the fighting side; these pugnacious women have much to answer for. So the quarrel spread till it became personal. All parties lost temper, all parties listened to tittle tattle, Mr Caw did mischief, poor man, as usual, chiefly by filling my Mother’s head with little low whisperings of slights, and slighting words, most of them inventions, and so it went on till both parties appealed to home.
At this point Sir Edward West suddenly died, his Widow followed him in a week or so, leaving one Orphan child, a little delicate girl, to the care of Sir Charles and Lady Chambers. In a month Sir Charles died too. Lady Chambers, poor woman, waited for her confinement, my Mother and I standing Godmothers to the poor posthumous child, Anne Catherine, and then sailing with all the Orphans for England.
The overwork of the Courts quite pleased my father, who went on capitally all his own way, as busy as half a dozen; but the Bombay Government interfering again about that Ramchander business, he, in a pet, closed the Court, a step every body, including my mother, condemned; but he was thoroughly out of temper, and no one to hold him in.
I forget whether he closed the Courts before or after our visit to Mahableishwa, but the dispute was in full vigour at that time, so we were out of the range of all the Governour’s civilities, never asked to meet him either—that is, collectively. I individually was quite his friend, riding with him frequently in the mornings, particularly on the hills, at least till he fancied he might be thought in the way. He used to read me the letters he received from his wife and children, sent me their pictures, newspapers, new books, fruit, flowers, etc. And when it was known that I was soon to remove to Satara, he not only wished me joy with all his heart, and told me I was marrying one of the best fellows in the service, but he confided to me that in the contemplated changes there would no longer be a Brigadier at Satara, the Resident would command what troops were necessary, and that Colonel Smith would be moved. Where would I like to go to. Akmednugger, he called it Nugger, was a good climate and a pleasant place, quite in the way of travellers, he’d send him there if the Station suited me. Only once we got upon the quarrel; he said if I had been my father’s Wife instead of his daughter it would never have gone such lengths; so he had listened to gossip too.
I took very much to Colonel and Mrs Robertson; he was delightful, he was quite a Scotchman, mostly a self educated one, and not refined but his innate goodness and long habits of command had given him the manner of a man in authority. He looked great at the head of his own long table, beaming his benevolent smiles all round, reading Burns aloud at some of our pleasant gatherings with the accent and the feeling of a country man. Here, too, we made the better acquaintance of Major Jameson, son of old Bailie Jameson at Inverness, connected with the Alves’s, Inglis’s, and other good northern bodies. Good natured man, he used to devote hours to my mother gossiping with her over all the north countrie. She liked him better than any person in Bombay, and was certainly a very great deal happier after he came among us. He was not in my Colonel’s regiment, but in one of the other Cavalry ones, and wore the handsome french gray uniform with silver. My Colonel used to meet me most mornings just where the path from our tents joined the road; we then went on together, generally towards Satara. One day either I was earlier than usual, or he was later, at any rate I arrived at the trysting place and he was not there. I did not know that I looked disappointed, but I looked up and down the road, I suppose. ‘The Colonel Sahib has gone on,’ said the syce,4 pointing to the fresh marks of a horse’s feet. I am sure I blushed, like the ‘rosy morn’, a little at the man’s sharpness, a little at my cool Colonel’s easy way of taking matters. Didn’t he pay for it. I should think so—he sometimes breakfasted with us, but very rarely, for sooth to say our breakfasts were not tempting to those Indian palates; toast and tea and butter, nothing more, no fish, no rice, no curry.
I had my coffee as usual after my ride, and then I often took a stroll round the tents, and then sat with a book near the curtain, which acted door, looking out on the scene around. Here I passed an hour or so before my father and mother joined me. She never rose early; he had very much given up his morning ride, not liking, perhaps, to meet the Governour. After breakfast we had our usual occupations, visitors or visiting, and then a neat toilette for an early dinner at home or elsewhere. In the evening often a saunter, and I, often a drive in Colonel Smith’s gig, none of us having brought up other carriages.
One day I had a ride on an elephant, an extremely disagreeable mode of moving, like a boat heaving up the wrong way. The great beast kneeled down when desired, and I got up his side by the help of a little ladder of 6 or 8 rungs slung to his back, and entered a curricle seat with a head to it. The roll of the creature as it rose was horrid, its awkward walk ditto, I was very glad to get safe on the ground again. Our strolls in the gray of the evening were checked by the appearance of a small green serpent, whose bite was venomous; a peon of the Robertsons’ died in consequence, and as we did not know where they might be, their colour concealing them too, we gave up our wanderings.
I was one morning writing at a table near the door of the tent, my toes touching a pile of books on the ground beneath it. Nasserwanjee came behind, and laying one hand on my shoulder to keep me in the chair and the other on the back of the chair, he pulled both back together, asking pardon for the liberty all the while. When I was at a safe distance, two peons moved forward and dashed a billet of wood on one of these little serpents, which had been lying close to the books and my toes—there’s a pleasant little interlude in one’s occupations. I saw only
one other strange animal in these mountains—a large monkey, or an ape rather, which I took for a little old Indian hindu, gray with age, for it was walking upright with a branch in its hand.
And now our time was up, and we were to go back to Bombay, and it was necessary to acquaint Sir John and Miladi that I thought it wiser to go off instead to Satara. It was but 30 miles, every comfort was already there in my Colonel’s bungalow, most of my wardrobe was with me, and some furniture. A clergyman was at hand—the smiling one—the Judge could grant the license, and the Resident do all the rest.
My father was delighted, particularly when he heard all the particulars of the Irish estate, the bachelour brother etc. He was charmed, too, at the idea of the mountain wedding, so queer, so primitive. I think he wanted to get rid of me with as little expense, too, as possible. Not so my Mother. She had no wish for any marriage, it would only throw so much more trouble on her. She did not see that either of my sisters had done much for herself by her determination to marry. Jane married to an old man who might be her grandfather, hideously ugly, and far from rich. Mary shut up with her airs and her baby, never seeing a creature, nor of any use to any one. She did not understand this craze for marrying; pray, who was to write all the notes. Colonel Smith was no great catch, just a soldier. An Irish lad who went out as a Cadet, like George Mclntosh of the Dell and 50 more such, and a marriage huddled up in that sort of way, in a desert, on a mountain, without a church, or a cake, or any preparations, it would be no marriage at all, neither decent nor respectable; she, for one, should never consider people married who had been buckled together in that couple beggar fashion. If there were to be a marriage at all it should be a proper one, in the Cathedral at Bombay by the clergyman who there officiated, friends at the wedding, and every thing as it ought to be.
So there was no help, she was resolute. We had to travel down the ghaut, and along the plains, a 100 miles, I think, for she would have no more sea, and travel back again after the ceremony, at the loss of a month’s extra pay, for the Colonel did not receive his allowances when on leave. Well, there was another dilemma. While I had been riding with Colonel Smith, Rose, my mother’s pretty half caste maid, had been walking with Serjeant Herring, the officer in charge of the invalids, and when she found that I was to be married, she confided to me that she meant to marry too, that live in that large Retreat without me she would not, could not, that Serjeant Herring had a situation in the hospital department, which gave him enough to support a Wife on very well, that he was a pious young man and very good looking, and would get leave to come down to Bombay for her as soon as he had taken back his invalids. I really was quite frightened; I did not know how to tell my poor mother this bad news. Not so Rose. Strengthened by the love of Serjeant Herring, she could brave greater danger; she should tell my Lady at once and let her get used to it. People were not to live single, people of course must marry, and my Lady etc. So Rose told, and a fine storm we had. I had to bear the worst of it, for it was all thrown on me. I had known of this ridiculous affair, concealed it, encouraged it, planned both Rose’s marriage and my own in an artful underhand way—and we should see what would come of it. My poor Mother. She felt deserted, desolate and her natural pride would not let her say so tenderly; there were many such tempers in the olden times.
Memoirs of a Highland Lady Page 69