Volunteering in India/Chapter 6
CHAPTER VI.
The mutineers having vanished, we turned our faces to the westward, and marched by comparatively easy stages through Tirhoot; and as we journeyed on from day to day in this district, we found it more attractive in pleasant scenery than any we had yet traversed. True, the general aspect of the landscape was monotonous; but where, it may be asked, on the plains of Upper India is the landscape not monotonous? You might travel thousands of miles, and yet the boundless plains, with almost unvarying rural features, would meet your gaze everywhere. You might look in every direction for miles and miles along the scene for some rare or novel object to break the interminable monotony of the vast outstretching country, but you would look in vain. Whichever way you may twist or turn, the clustering villages of the peasantry; the hamlet homestead, with its sugar or oil mills; the irrigation wells dotting the fields; the evergreen groves (topes) of mango, tamarind, and other fruit, or ordinary tropical trees; the ruined buildings of ancient times; the Hindii or Mahomedan temples or mosques; now and again rivers, or cities, or towns, or relics of bygone ages, mingle in the picture; and so on and on, miles succeed miles in wonderful and measureless panoramic monotony of rural beauty, which gives the general aspect of the country a look as if it had been cast in the same beautiful mould, and spread out over the land by the same artistic hand. But in contrast to this uniformity of the scenery that of Tirhoot is exceptionally superior in versatility ; and is all the more enhanced by a succession of attractive residences scattered over the district amidst picturesque grounds, where extensive factories, and thousands of highly cultivated acres of indigo, mark the industry and prosperity of the Planters. The hospitality, too, for which the Planters in India have always been famed, we found still prevailing unimpaired in this part of the country, and our march through it to Mozufferpur was one of hilarious enjoyment.
As Mozufferpur was the sudder, or chief town in Tirhoot, we halted there for a few days, in order to rest the horses and baggage animals for the work on the contemplated line of march. In the place itself there was little worthy of remark, except that it had escaped the deplorable scenes and general calamities of the evil times, and looked pleasant and invited repose.
Our “gala days” — as they were termed — at Mozufferpur were often recalled to memory with positive ecstasy, when contrasting them with the gloomy ones we subsequently experienced. It was New Year's time, the season of general holiday, the first we had had since our hard work began, and we took advantage of it to enjoy a downright “jolly” halt at this delightful station, until in weather that had set in wet we moved to Motehāre. It rained incessantly, and to journey in a saturated skin is at all times far from agreeable; indeed, few hardships to cavalry can be more intolerable than the discomfort attending long marches over flooded roads and through torrents of rain — no condition more dismal and annoying than that of campaigning life in such inclement weather. We toiled away on the surface of immense submerged plains, and in due course arrived at Motehāre, which small station we found deserted by the European community, though it appeared untouched by the remorseless hands of rebels.
While on the march, I pause again for a moment at another little station named Segowle, to note the story of a tragedy in which the actors were the demoniac troopers of a cavalry regiment. It was the only corps stationed at this insignificant cantonment, and so isolated was its position that it seemed beyond the reach of fanatical emissaries or seditions proclamations. Besides, we were told that the Commandant of the regiment never ceased to believe in the loyalty of his men, and over and over again declared them “staunch,” and proof against treachery swerving them from their allegiance to the Government. Sad, therefore, it is to relate that he was murdered in cold blood by these very men whom he had thus extolled. Morbid and infatuated confidence, however, led numerous officers of the Bengal Army to similarly trust bloodthirsty traitors at the commencement of the Mutiny; and they lost their lives in consequence. But, after all, it is not conjectural to say, this “infatuated confidence” originated from ignorance of the inborn Asiatic deceit, and honeyed lies, which are ever hidden under the smooth language and manners of Orientals, and by which many Englishmen — though they may have lived in India among the natives for years — are so easily deceived.
It was with no reluctance that we passed on from this sad and silent cantonment, and in spite of frightful roads, rendered in places almost impassable by the recent rains, entered the Bitteah rāj. And here, to relieve the dryness of antecedent details, I may remark in passing that late in the evening of our arrival in the town, we were not a little surprised to hear the tolling of the “vesper bell”; and yet not a single European was living in the place, nor even in its neighbourhood. We were, however, told that Bitteah contained a substantially built Roman Catholic chapel in thorough repair, and that the appurtenances of every description appropriated to the uses of the religion were in perfect preservation. Hence it would seem an interesting question to ask how this Papal sanctuary, situated as it was in the very port-hole of the rebellion, escaped destruction or desecration, when elsewhere the rebels destroyed or defiled all Christian churches and chapels.
However, as the chapel at Bitteah happened to be in a town that belonged to one of the honourable feudal lords, or Barons of Bengal, and not to the rapacious East India Company, it seemed self-evident that only for this reason it was spared. But I am wandering beyond our line of march, and from the Gunduk river, which flows calmly through extremely fertile country, and separates Bengal Proper from the North-West Provinces.