Camps, Quarters, and Casual Places

A >> Archibald Forbes >> Camps, Quarters, and Casual Places

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Fortifications of the future will differ curiously from those of the
present. The latter, with their towering scarps, their massive
_enceintes_, their "portentous ditches," will remain as monuments of a
vicious system, except where, as in the cases of Vienna, Cologne, Sedan,
etc., the dwellers in the cities they encircle shall procure their
demolition for the sake of elbow-room, or until modern howitzer shells or
missiles charged with high explosives shall pulverise their naked expanses
of masonry. In the fortification of the future the defender will no longer
be "enclosed in the toils imposed by the engineer" with the inevitable
disabilities they entail, while the besieger enjoys the advantage of free
mobility. Plevna has killed the castellated fortress. With free
communications the full results attainable by fortress artillery
intelligently used, will at length come to be realised. Unless in rare
cases and for exceptional reasons towns will gradually cease to be
fortified even by an encirclement of detached forts. Where the latter are
availed of, practical experience will infallibly condemn the expensive and
complex cupola-surmounted construction of which General Brialmont is the
champion. "A work," trenchantly argues Major Sydenham Clarke, "designed on
the principles of the Roman catacombs is suited only for the dead, in a
literal or in a military sense. The vast system of subterranean chambers
and passages is capable of entombing a brigade, but denies all necessary
tactical freedom of action to a battalion."

The fortress of the future will probably be in the nature of an intrenched
camp. The interior of the position will provide casemate accommodation for
an army of considerable strength. Its defences will consist of a circle at
intervals of about 2500 yards, of permanent redoubts which shall be
invisible at moderate ranges for infantry and machine guns, the garrison
of each redoubt to consist of a half battalion. Such a work was in 1886
constructed at Chatham in thirty-one working days, to hold a garrison of
200 men housed in casemates built in concrete, for less than L3000, and
experiments proved that it would require a "prohibitory expenditure" of
ammunition to cause it serious damage by artillery fire. The supporting
defensive armament will consist of a powerful artillery rendered mobile by
means of tram-roads, this defence supplemented by a field force carrying
on outpost duties and manning field works guarding the intervals between
the redoubts. Advanced defences and exterior obstacles of as formidable a
character as possible will be the complement of what in effect will be an
immensely elaborated Plevna, which, properly armed and fully organised,
will "fulfil all the requirements of defence" while possessing important
potentialities of offence.

An illustration is pertinent of the pre-eminent utility of such fortified
and strongly held positions, of whose characteristics the above is the
merest outline. In the event of a future Franco-German War, the immensely
expensive cordon of fortresses with which the French have lined their
frontier, efficiently equipped, duly garrisoned and well commanded, will
unquestionably present a serious obstacle to the invading armies. The
Germans talk of _vive force_--shell heavily and then storm; the latter
resort one for which they have in the past displayed no predilection.
Whether by storm or interpenetration, they will probably break the cordon,
but they cannot advance without masking all the principal fortresses. This
will employ a considerable portion of their strength, and the invasion
will proceed in less force, which will be an advantage to the defenders.
But if instead of those multitudinous fortresses the French had
constructed, say, three such intrenched-camp fortresses as have been
sketched, each quartering 50,000 men, it would appear that they would have
done better for themselves at far less cost. Each intrenched position
containing a field army 50,000 strong would engross a beleaguering host of
100,000 men. The positions of the type outlined are claimed to be
impregnable; they could contain supplies and munitions for at least a
year, detaining around them for that period 300,000 of the enemy. No
European power except Russia has soldiers enough to spare so long such a
mass of troops standing fast, and simultaneously to prosecute the invasion
of a first-rate power with approximately equal numbers. France at the cost
of 150,000 men would be holding supine on her frontier double the number
of Germans--surely no disadvantageous transaction.

In conclusion, it may be worth while to point out that the current
impression that the maintenance by states of "bloated armaments" is a keen
incentive to war, is fallacious. How often do we hear, "There must be a
big war soon; the powers cannot long stand the cost of standing looking at
each other, all armed to the teeth!" War is infinitely more costly than
the costliest preparedness. But this is not all. The country gentleman for
once in a way brings his family to town for the season, pledging himself
privily to strict economy when the term of dissipation ends, in order to
restore the balance. But for a State, as the sequel to a season of war
there is no such potentiality of economy. Rather there is the grim
certainty of heavier and yet heavier expenditure after the war, in the
still obligatory character of the armed man keeping his house. Therefore
it is that potentates are reluctant to draw the sword, and rather bear the
ills they have than fly to other evils inevitably worse still. Whether the
final outcome will be universal national bankruptcy or the millennium, is
a problem as yet insoluble.

GEORGE MARTELL'S BANDOBAST

[Footnote: _Bandobast_ is an Indian word, which, like many others, has
been all but formally incorporated into Anglo-Indian English. The meaning
is, plan, scheme, organised arrangement.]

George Martell was an indigo-planter in Western Tirhoot, a fine tract of
Bengal stretching from the Ganges to the Nepaul Terai, and roughly bounded
on the west by the Gunduck, on the east by the Kussi. Planter-life in
Tirhoot is very pleasant to a man in robust health, who possesses some
resources within himself. In many respects it more resembles active rural
life at home than does any other life led by Anglo-Indians. The joys of a
planter's life have been enthusiastically sung by a planter-poet; and the
frank genial hospitality of the planter's bungalow stands out pre-eminent,
even amidst the universal hospitality of India. The planter's bungalow is
open to all comers. The established formula for the arriving stranger is
first to call for brandy-and-soda, then to order a bath, and finally to
inquire the name of the occupant his host. The laws of hospitality are as
the laws of the Medes and Persians. Once in the famine time a stranger in
a palki reached a planter's bungalow in an outlying district, and sent in
his card. The planter sent him out a drink but did not bid him enter. The
stranger remained in the veranda till sundown, had another drink, and then
went on his way. This breach of statute law became known. There was much
excuse for the planter, for the traveller was a missionary and in other
respects was a _persona ingrata_. But the credit of planterhood was at
stake; and so strong was the force of public opinion that the planter who
had been a defaulter in hospitality had to abandon the profession and quit
the district. It was on this occasion laid down as a guiding illustration,
that if Judas Iscariot, when travelling around looking for an eligible
tree on which to hang himself, had claimed the hospitality of a planter's
bungalow, the dweller therein would have been bound to accord him that
hospitality. Not even newspaper correspondents were to be sent empty away.

The indigo-planter is "up in the morning early" and away at a swinging
canter on his "waler" nag, out into the _dahaut_ to visit the _zillahs_ on
which his crop is growing. He returns when the sun is getting high with a
famous appetite for a breakfast which is more than half luncheon. After
his siesta he may look in upon a neighbour--all Tirhoot are neighbours and
within a radius of thirty miles is considered next door. He would ride
that distance any day to spend an hour or two in a house brightened by the
presence of womanhood. His anxious period is _mahaye_ time, when the
indigo is in the vats and the quantity and quality of the yield depend so
much on care and skill. But except at _mahaye_ time he is always ready for
relaxation, whether it takes the form of a polo match, a pig-sticking
expedition, or a race-meeting at Sonepoor, Muzzufferpore, or Chumparun.
These race-meetings last for several days on end, there being racing and
hunting on alternate days with a ball every second night. It used to be
worth a journey to India to see Jimmy Macleod cram a cross-grained "waler"
over an awkward fence, and squeeze the last ounce out of the brute in the
run home on the flat. The Tirhoot ladies are in all respects charming; and
it must remain a moot point with the discriminating observer whether they
are more delightful in the genial home-circles of which they are the
centres and ornaments, or in the more exciting stir and whirl of the
ballroom. After every gathering hecatombs of slain male victims mournfully
cumber the ground; and one all-conquering fair one, now herself conquered
by matrimony and motherhood, wrung from those her charms had blighted the
title of "the destroying angel."

George Martell was an honest sort of a clod. He stood well with the ryots,
and the mark of his factory always brought out keen bidding at Thomas's
auction-mart in Mission Row and was held in respect in the Commission Sale
Rooms in Mincing Lane. He was a good shikaree and could hold his own
either at polo or at billiards; but being somewhat shy and not a little
clumsy he did not frequent race-balls nor throw himself in the way of
"destroying angels." He had been over a dozen years in the district and
had not been known to propose once, so that he had come to be set down as
a misogynist. Among his chief allies was a neighbouring planter called
Mactavish. Mactavish in some incomprehensible way--he being a gaunt,
uncouth, bristly Scot, whose Highland accent was as strong as the whisky
with which he had coloured his nose--had contrived to woo and win a bonny,
baby-faced girl, the ripple of whose laughter and the dancing sheen of
whose auburn curls filled the Mactavish bungalow with glad bright
sunshine. When Mac first brought home this winsome fairy Martell had
sheepishly shunned the residence of his friend, till one fine morning when
he came in from the _dahaut_ he found Minnie Mactavish quite at home among
the pipes, empty soda-water bottles, and broken chairs that constituted
the principal articles of furniture in his bachelor sitting-room. Minnie
had come to fetch her husband's friend and in her dainty imperious way
would take no denial. So George had his bath, got a fresh horse saddled,
nearly chucked Minnie over the other side as he clumsily helped her to
mount her pony, and rode away with her a willing if somewhat clownish
captive. Arriving at the bungalow Mactavish, honest George was bewildered
by the transformation it had undergone. Flowers were where the spirit-case
used to stand. There was a drawing-room with actually a piano in it; the
_World_ lay on the table instead of the _Sporting Times_, and the servants
wore a quiet, tasteful livery. Mac himself had been trimmed and titivated
almost out of recognition. He who had been wont to lounge half the day in
his _pyjamas_ was now almost smartly dressed; his beard was cropped, and
his bristly poll brushed and oiled. If George had a weak spot in him it
was for a simple song well sung. Mrs. Mac, accompanying herself on the
piano, sang to him "The Land o' the Leal" and brewed him a mild peg with
her own fair hands. George by bedtime did not know whether he was on his
head or his heels.

He lay awake all night thinking over all he had seen. Mactavish now was
clearly a better man than ever he had been before. He had told George he
was living more cheaply as a married man than ever he had done as a
bachelor; and in the matter of happiness there was no comparison. George
rose early to go home; but early as it was Mrs. Mac was up too, and
arrayed in a killing morning _neglige_ that fairly made poor George
stammer, gave him his _chota hazri_ and stroked his horse's head as he
mounted. About half-way home George suddenly shouted, "D----d if I don't
do it too!" and brought his hand down on his thigh with a smack that set
his horse buck-jumping.

In effect, George Martell had determined to get married. But where to find
a Mrs. Martell? Mrs. Mactavish had told him she had no sisters and that
her only relative was a maiden grand-aunt, whom George thought must be a
little too old to marry unless in the last resort. If he took the field at
the next race-meeting the fellows would chaff the life out of him; and
besides, he scarcely felt himself man enough to face a "destroying angel."
As he pondered, riding slowly homeward, a thought occurred to him. When he
had been at home a dozen years ago his two girl-sisters had been at
school, and their great playmate had been a girl of eleven, by name Laura
Davidson. Laura was a pretty child. He had taken occasional notice of her;
had once kissed her after having been severely scratched in the struggle;
and had taken her and his sisters to the local theatre. What if Laura
Davidson--now some three-and-twenty--were still single? What if she were
pretty and nice? He remembered that the colour of her hair was not unlike
Mrs. Mac's, and was in ringlets too. And what if she were willing to come
out and make lonely George Martell as happy a man as was that lucky old
Mac?

It was mail-day, and George, taking time by the forelock, sat down and
wrote to his sister what had come into his head. By the return mail he had
her reply: Laura Davidson was single; she was nice; she was pretty; she
had fair ringlets; she had a hazy memory of George and the kissing
episode, and was willing to come out and marry him and try to make him
happy. But she could not well come alone; could George suggest any method
of _chaperonage_ on the voyage?

In the district of Champarun, which in essentials is part of Tirhoot, lies
the quaint little cavalry cantonment of Segowlie. It is the last relic of
the old Nepaul war, which caused the erection of a chain of cantonments
along the frontier all of which save Segowlie, are now abandoned. There is
just room for one native cavalry regiment at Segowlie, and the soldiers
like the station because of excellent sport and the good comradeship of
the planters. At Segowlie at the time I am writing of there happened to be
quartered a certain Major Freeze, whose wife, after a couple of years at
home, was about returning to India. George had some acquaintance with the
Major and a far-off profound respect for his wife, who was an admirable
and stately lady. It occurred to him to try whether it could not be
managed that she should bring out the future Mrs. Martell. He saw the
Major, who was only too delighted at the prospect of a new lady in the
district, and the affair was soon arranged. Mrs. Freeze wrote that she and
Miss Davidson were leaving by such-and-such a mail; and knowing that
Martell was rather lumpy when a lady was in the case, she thoughtfully
suggested that he should go down to Bombay and meet them so as to get over
the initial awkwardness by making himself useful and gain his intended's
respect by swearing at the niggers.

All went well. But George Martell was not quite his own master, he was
only part of a "concern" and was bound to do his best for his partners. It
happened, just about the time the P. and O. steamer was due at Bombay,
that the most ticklish period of the indigo-planters' year was upon
Martell. The juice had begun to flow from the vats. He had no assistant
and he did not dare to leave the work, so he telegraphed to Bombay to
explain this to Mrs. Freeze, and added that he would meet her and her
companion at Bankipore where their long railway journey would end. Miss
Davidson did not understand much about the absorbing crisis of indigo
production, and she had a spice of romance in her composition; so that
poor Martell did not rise in her estimation by his default at Bombay. When
the ladies reached Bankipore there was still no Martell, but only a
_chuprassee_ with a note to say that the juice was still running, and that
Martell sahib could not leave the factory but would be waiting for them at
Segowlie. At this even Mrs. Freeze almost lost her temper.

They have a "State Railway" now in Tirhoot, but at the time I am writing
of there was only one _pukha_ road in all the district. The ladies
travelled in palanquins, or palkis, as they are more familiarly called. It
is a long journey from Bankipore to Segowlie, and three nights were spent
in travelling. Bluff old Minden Wilson stood on the bank above the ghat to
welcome Mrs. Freeze across the Ganges. One day was spent at young Spudd's
factory, the second at the residence of a genial planter rejoicing in the
quaint name of Hong Kong Scribbens; on the third morning they reached
Segowlie. But still no Martell; only a _chit_ to say that that plaguy
juice was still running but that he hoped to be able to drive over to
dinner. Miss Davidson went to bed in a huff; and Major Freeze was
temporarily inclined to think that her home-trip had impaired his good
lady's amiability of character.

Martell did turn up at dinner-time. But he was hardly a man at any time to
create much of an impression, and on this occasion he appeared to
exceptional disadvantage. He was stutteringly nervous; and there were some
evidences that he had been ineffectually striving to mitigate his
nervousness by the consumption of his namesake. He wore a new dress-coat
which had not the remotest pretensions to fit him, and the bear's-grease
which he had freely used gave unpleasant token of rancidity. The dinner
was an unsatisfactory performance. Miss Davidson was extremely
_distraite_, while Martell became more and more nervous as the meal
progressed and was manifestly relieved when the ladies retired. Soon after
they had done so the Major was sent for from the drawing-room. He found
Miss Davidson sobbing on his wife's bosom. He asked what was the matter.
The girl, with many sobbing interruptions, gasped out--

"He's the wrong man! O Heavens, I never saw _him_ before! The man I
remember who gave me sweets when I was a child had black hair; _he_ has
red! Oh, what shall I do? Oh, please send that man away and let me go
home!"

And then Miss Davidson went off into hysterics.

Here was a pretty state of matters! The Major and his wife could not see
their way clear at all. Consultation followed consultation, with visits on
the Major's part to poor Martell in the dining-room irregularly
interspersed. It was almost morning before affairs arranged themselves
after a fashion. The new basis agreed upon was that the previously
existing arrangement should be regarded as dead, and that a courtship
between Martell and Miss Davidson should be commenced _de novo_--he to do
his best to recommend himself to the lady's affections, she to learn to
love him if she could, red hair and all. And so George went home, and the
Segowlie household went to bed.

Poor George at the best had a very poor idea of courting acceptably; and
surely no man was more heavily handicapped in the enterprise prescribed
him. He had to court to order, and to combat, besides, both the bad
impression made at starting and the misfortune of his red hair. The poor
fellow did his best. He used to come and sit in Mrs. Freeze's drawing-room
hours on end, glowering at Miss Davidson in a silence broken by spasmodic
efforts at forced talk. He brought the girl presents, gave her a horse,
and begged of her to ride with him. But the great stupid fellow had not
thought of a habit and the girl felt a delicacy in telling him that she
had not one. So the horse ate his head off in idleness, and George's heart
went farther and farther down in the direction of his boots. He had so
bothered Mrs. Freeze that she had washed her hands of him, and had bidden
him worry it out on his own line.

In less than a month the crisis came. Miss Davidson could not bring
herself to think of poor George as affording the makings of a husband. She
told Mrs. Freeze so, and begged, for kindness sake, that the Major would
break this her determination to Mr. Martell and desire him to give the
thing up as hopeless. The Major thought the best course to pursue was to
write to George to this effect. Next morning in the small hours the poor
fellow turned up in the Segowlie veranda in a terribly bad way. He would
not accept his fate at second-hand in this fashion; he must see Miss
Davidson and try to move her to be kind to him. In the end there was an
interview between them, from which George emerged quiet but very pale. His
notable matrimonial bandobast had proved the deadest of failures; and the
poor fellow's lip trembled as he thought of Mactavish's happy home and his
own forlorn bungalow.

But although he had red hair and did not know in the least what to do with
his feet, George Martell was a gentleman. The lady continuing anxious to
go home, he insisted on his right to pay her return passage as he had done
her passage outward, urging rather ruefully that, having taken a shot at
happiness and having missed fire, he must be the sole sufferer. It is a
little surprising that this uncouth chivalry did not melt the lady, but
she was obdurate, although she let him have his way about the passage
money. So in the company of an officer's wife going home Miss Davidson
quitted Segowlie and journeyed to Bombay. Poor old George, with a very
sore heart, was bent on seeing the last of her before settling down again
to the old dull bachelor life. He dodged down to Bombay in the same train,
travelling second class that he might not annoy the girl by a chance
meeting; and stood with a sad face leaning on the rail of the Apollo
Bunder, as he watched the ship containing his miscarried venture steam out
of Bombay harbour on its voyage to England.

The same night he set out on his return to his plantation. At near
midnight the mail-train from Bombay reaches Eginpoora, at the head of the
famous Bhore ghat. Some refreshment is ordinarily procurable there, but it
is not much of a place. George Martell had had a drink, and was sauntering
moodily up and down the platform waiting for the whistle to sound. As he
passed the second class compartment reserved for ladies he heard a low,
tremulous voice exclaim, "Oh, if I could only make them understand that
I'd give the world for a cup of tea!" George, if uncouth, was a practical
man. His prompt voice rang out, "_Qui hye, ek pyala chah lao!_" Promptly
came the refreshment-room _khitmutghar_, hurrying with the tea; and
George, taking off his hat, begged to know whether he could be of any
further service.

It was a very pleasant face that looked out on him in the moonlight, and
there was more than mere conventionality in the accents in which the
pleasant voice acknowledged his opportune courtesy. Insensibly George and
the lady drifted into conversation. She was very lonely, poor thing; a
friendless girl coming out to be governess in the family of a _burra
sahib_ at Chupra. Now Chupra is only across the Gunduck from Tirhoot, so
George told his new acquaintance they were both going to nearly the same
place, and professed his cordial willingness to assist her on the journey.
He did so, escorting her right into Chupra before he set his face homeward;
and he thenceforth got into a habit of visiting Chupra very frequently.
Need I prolong the story? I happened to be in Bankipore when the Prince of
Wales visited that centre of famine-wallahs. It fell to my pleasant lot to
take Mrs. Martell in to dinner at the Commissioner's hospitable table.
Mrs. Mactavish was sitting opposite; and I went back to my bedroom-tent in
the compound without having made up my mind whether she or Mrs. Martell
was the prettier and the nicer. So you see George Martell did not make
quite so bad a _bandobast_ after all.

THE LUCKNOW OF TO-DAY--1879

It was in Cawnpore on my way up country, during the Prince of Wales's tour
through India, that there were shown to me some curious and interesting
mementoes of the siege of Lucknow. The friend in whose possession they
were was near Havelock as he sat before his tent in the short Indian
twilight, a short time before the advance on Lucknow made by him and
Outram in September 1857. Through the gloom of the falling twilight there
came marching towards the General a file of Highlanders escorting a tall,
gaunt Oude man, on whose swarthy face the lamplight struck as he salaamed
before the General Lord Sahib. Then he extracted from his ear a minute
section of quill sealed at both ends. The General's son opened the strange
envelope forwarded by a postal service so hazardous, and unrolled a morsel
of paper which seemed to be covered with cabalistic signs. The missive had
been sent out from Lucknow by Brigadier Inglis, the commander of the
beleaguered garrison of the Lucknow Residency, and its bearer was the
stanch and daring scout, Ungud. As I write the originals of this
communication and of others which came in the same way lie before me; and
two of those missives in their curious mixture of characters may be found
of interest to readers of to-day.

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