An American Girl in India/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV
AN ECHO OF GREAT DAYS GONE BY
Berengaria tells me that that last chapter is too much like a guide-book. It gives away my nationality at once, she declares, for she, like the rest of her race, believes that the love of guide-books is deeply implanted in every American heart. It may be; I can't say. Anyway, I admit it is in mine. I like to take an intelligent interest in everything, and see all that there is to be seen. Of course, if you can get a man to show you round it is better, but you won't often find a man anything like as informing or intelligent as a guide-book. Anyway, I am not writing a guide-book now, so I will take Berengaria's advice, and shun anything in this chapter in the way of facts, dates, and figures. I will take to lecturing the British public instead. They tell me that the British public likes being lectured, and pays you well for doing it. We shall see just now.
I believe I warned you somewhere that I was bound to cry once more before this book ended, and I am going to do it now, all in a little chapter by itself, at the same time that I upbraid the British public. You may think that there was not much to cry about at the Delhi Durbar. But there was, and lots of people did it and were unashamed. Even Berengaria, who is not at all that kind of person, got frightfully sniffy and blurred about the eyes.
We had watched them for over an hour—an endless stream of carriages of state, ablaze with all the glory of the East, each one seemingly more gorgeous than the last as one by one they deposited their princely occupants at the steps of the great amphitheatre, where they had come from every corner of the Indian Empire to pay homage to the first King-Emperor, whom all acknowledged. India in all the countless ages of her history, could have seen no sight like that—magnificent state coaches, dazzling glass, or silver and gold, upholstered in every conceivable colour in velvet and satin and silk, splendid teams of horses gorgeously caparisoned and weighed down with trappings and cloth of gold, running footmen as in days of old in state liveries with maces of gold and ebony and silver, and within the coaches the scions of the proudest sons of Ind. It was wonderful.
Suddenly, above the clatter of dangling swords, the prancing of horses' feet, and the stately greetings of chiefs, a clear bugle-call rang out. We hurried to our places, and as if by magic the crowd melted from the great arena within, leaving it bare for the coming spectacle. The huge mass of people on the surrounding seats swayed like a field of corn blown by a capricious breeze as each one sought his place. Gradually the rustling ceased. It subsided and all was still. It grew so still that one could feel the silence. That extraordinary feeling that we of the West seldom experience, but that many a native race, living akin to nature, knows full well—that sixth sense fraught with mystery—seemed suddenly to awake and hold us tense with expectation. Something was coming—something unexpected, something that would move us strangely. Silently we sat waiting, our nerves strung painfully. Then the whisper passed. They were coming. Not the Viceroy, not the brother of the King-Emperor, not the splendour and glory of the East, nor the might of the West in the heyday of its pride. They were coming! One heard the strains of music that accompanied them before they came in sight. 'See the Conquering Hero Comes.' Why was it that one's pulses leapt within one and one's eyes drew dim? And then they came, straggling, in no attempted order, some in uniform and some in mufti, they came, just a band of feeble toil-worn men, old and bent and weary, disabled, crippled, maimed, but, above all, triumphant, the Heroes of England's day of need—of England's day of victory—the veterans of the Mutiny. At their head marched the band of the Munster Fusileers, the old ioist Foot, which had fought so gallantly at their side. It was the same regiment, with the same traditions, but it was a new and younger generation of men who played the heroes in to-day, and their strength and vigour contrasted strangely with the utter weakness of the little company that followed them, striking an added note of pathos. Slowly they marched round the huge arena, slowly because they were old and the light of life burned low. It seemed almost as if some of them would never accomplish even that short journey. Something seemed to rise up and catch one in the throat as one watched. No moment in all my life has been quite like that. One felt as if one must cry out, as if one must break down and sob for very sympathy and joy and pride. They were the remnant, all that was left in India of those who had passed through the fire of Delhi and Lucknow—of those who had helped to save the Empire.
In the forefront marched the little band of Europeans, only twenty-seven of them. Behind, more pathetic still by reason of their great loyalty to another and once alien race, the company of Sepoys, only three hundred and eighty-seven strong all told. They were in every variety of costume. There was no attempt to march them round to their seats on the furthest side in anything like order. They were just left to come as they would. And it was just that that moved one most. It was the utter contrast to everything that had gone before, and that was to come after. Strength, precision, pomp, discipline, these had been the watchwords hitherto. Here there was neither one nor the other—only a great appalling weakness, a pathetic reminder of the strength that once had been. With quick, spontaneous unanimity the whole assembly rose to its feet, and then, brokenly at first, as if men scarce trusted themselves to give vent to the emotion that held them, from every corner of the vast amphitheatre came the ringing cheer on cheer that only a British crowd can give. Truly, the music spoke true. They were the conquering heroes. The well-known air could be played more worthily for none than for these. And then, as they were half-way round, opposite the dais where the Viceroy would sit, the music changed. They were nearing their seats. The few brief moments that they had held us all enthralled were passing. If any eye was still dry, the old familiar air, with its many memories, that now struck up, must have blurred its sight at last. 'For Auld Lang Syne.' One saw them moving onward through a mist. One was back with them before the gates of Delhi out there beyond along the ridge. One was with them through those terrible months in the Residency at Lucknow. All the glory and pageantry of an Emperor's coronation faded out of sight. One was back with them bearing the brunt and the heat and burden of the day, fighting a hand-to-hand fight of life and death for England. With a rush of feeling one realised that it was to them, to that small band of old and crippled men, and to the many whom they represented who had passed away, that we owed the triumph of to-day. They had come through much tribulation, but they had come to bring us this to-day. Without them, if they had not sacrificed themselves for Empire, there could have been no coronation of the King in his Imperial City.
Oh, English hearts, how is it that you can forget! I would that every one of the millions who glory in the name of Briton might have been gathered from every quarter of that glorious Empire on which no sun can set to see that remnant of its fighting days pass by. There could have been no heart that would not have been stirred. For none who saw can forget. Would that I had the pen to paint it in words that might bring home its power to those to whom it was not given to see. Pride of race is a good thing for a nation. England has so much of it in one way and so little in another. I have lived years in England, and I might scarcely have known that you ever possessed such a place as India at all. You have so little enthusiasm. I don't want you to shriek and gesticulate. That would be un-English. But do know something about and take an interest in and be proud of your great Indian Empire. Is this small band of heroes nothing to you as it passes by? Do you ever think what it would have meant if you had lost India? Impossible, you say; but what would have happened save for the loyalty of the native troops? And this feeble little company passing by represent all that is left of them. Surely if the great heart of England knew, it would go out to them. But you Englishmen are so dreadfully hard to rouse. For fifty years those men who did so much for you have been growing old, poor, unnoticed, with but scant honour and respect. That was half the pathos of it as one watched them marching by. It was as if one brought from some old time cabinet a worn and faded memory of the past. These feeble tottering men, so forlorn, so helpless, seemed to have been unearthed from some long-forgotten tragedy. About them clung so little of the triumph of the victory that had been theirs. How had they spent the intervening years? For them the present and the future seemed to hold so little. They heard at last the shouts and acclamation of the cheering crowd. But it was so pathetically like a recognition that had come too late. What a rush of thoughts must have crowded in upon them as they played their little part in the proclamation of the King! What strange emotion must those cheers have raised in those long-forgotten hearts. Appreciation, recognition, gratitude in full measure—at last. It was not for these they fought. But to have given so much and met with so little in return. It was not even for their native country that these men had fought. It was for the great Queen of another race beyond the seas—the mother of men—to whom they had sworn allegiance, and to whom they had remained so true. But now at last, after well-nigh fifty years, the best and greatest in the land, the representatives of the world-wide British Empire, hailed them conquerers, and threw their tribute of gratitude and acclamation at their feet.
'For Auld Lang Syne.' The march round the arena was nearly done. And it was well, for even that short journey was all too long for some. The oldest and the weakest had fallen gradually behind, and many there were who would not have reached the end but for the stronger arms stretched out to help them. One old man, bent and crippled beyond belief, clung for support to a veteran only one degree less frail on either side, and even then his feet dragged wearily and his body tottered as they led him slowly on. Only his eyes seemed to live, fixed, but alight, heedless of the cheering crowds, like the eyes of one who saw visions. Tears rained slowly down the face of another, emotion finding vent in the frail body that had long since spent its strength and vigour. And so, leaving us with hearts strangely moved, they passed, and joined the great throng that waited to hail the first Emperor of the great Empire they had done so much to found.
Far off like distant thunder comes the sound of the first salutes. A stir of expectation, the rattle of rifles as the long lines of troops come to the salute, the flash of swords and the jingle of accoutrements as the escort flashes by, and the Duke and Duchess of Connaught have arrived. Now as always there is no mistaking their popularity. Englishman and Indian vie with one another to give them welcome. Again a pause, and the Viceroy comes. The great historic Durbar has begun. The silver trumpets sound at the entrance and the herald enters as if from some gorgeous picture of the days of chivalry. In front of the dais the great black horse stands like a rock, unmoved by the rattle of musketry, the waves of cheering, or the deep startling notes of the salutes. Stately, magnificent, he plays his part, proudly arching his neck and tossing his head to let the sun gleam on his coal-black mane and swaying plumes. Then upon the dead silence—the impressive silence of a waiting multitude—rings the herald's voice proclaiming the King-Emperor. We strain our ears to catch his every word. Then the salutes. We sit in silence, listening. One hundred and one guns boom out across the plain. 'God save the King.' Twice after the feu de joie, the inspiring strains ring out from the massed bands beyond. Each time they bring a rush of pride and exultation as the vast assembly rises to its feet. Never before had I realised the full impressiveness of that national hymn. Played like that in those surroundings, one heard it with other ears. But too often it is nothing more than the signal for departure, the hurried putting on of cloaks, the murmuring of the last words of farewell. Here one stood listening tense and eager, greatly moved by what had passed, and waiting for that which was yet to come. Could there have been one in all that great throng who was not stirred to the very depths? All that there was of loyalty in one seemed to rise to meet those clear, triumphant, acclaiming notes as they rang out upon the quivering listening air. 'Victorious, happy, and glorious.' Was there a heart that did not respond? 'God save the King.'
Then the Emperor's message, listened to with breathless interest, and the Viceroy's speech, every word ringing out clear and true to the furthest limits of that vast amphitheatre. Then, turning towards us, the Herald called to us to take our part in the acclamation of the King. 'Three cheers for the King-Emperor!' and our pent-up feelings found relief in those deep enthusiastic shouts that rose in quick unanimous response. Then in one long line they came—the Princes of the East from every corner of the vast Indian Empire, from far-famed Mysore and Travancore in the south to the wild Baluchi country in the north, from the remote Shan states on the outskirts of the Empire to the sandy reaches of the Persian Gulf—they came with words of loyalty on their lips to lay for the first time in all the countless ages of Indian history a common tribute at the same Emperor's feet. Nothing could have more impressed one with the strength and wealth and splendour of our Indian Empire than this. It was well to be an Englishman that day.
There was just one little scene more. The Viceroy and Vicereine had left the daïs, and the first gun of the royal salute was sounding as they stepped into their carriage and drove away. On the daïs for a moment the Duke and Duchess of Connaught stood alone. It was the last breathless pause, as we watched the closing scene before the end. Then with inimitable grace and dignity they turned slowly and bowed right and left to that vast assemblage. It was done so charmingly, so personally, as it were, that each one felt it as a gracious personal act towards himself, and the great concourse gave vent to its appreciation in one last roar of deafening loyalty and enthusiasm.