CHAPTER II.
From Calcutta the Corps, having been ferried across the river Hūghly to Howrāh, was conveyed by railway in a few hours to Raneegung, over the first stage on its onward journey.
Raneegung — then the terminus of the East Indian Railway — was at that period a great rendezvous of the army proceeding to the seat of the war, and warlike preparations on a formidable scale were going on there with amazing rapidity. Masses of troops, horses for cavalry and artillery, baggage animals, immense parks of guns, magazine and commissariat stores, countless dolies or hospital litters, camp equipage and innumerable busy followers, demonstrated the unrelenting realities and stern agitation of the times.
But all this bustle and chaos did not trouble us long; for before we could realise — by the warlike scenes around us — our sudden transformation from civilians to soldiers, we were “told off,” to join a force proceeding to the North-West Provinces.
At midnight therefore we stood to arms in readiness to march. In front of all were to move several companies of European infantry, having a troop of horse-artillery in immediate communication with them: they were to be followed by us — and the “us,” I may remark, means, and always will mean in this narrative, the Bengal Yeomanry Cavalry— the whole being covered by a native regiment of the Madras Army as a rear guard. The line of march having thus been formed, the bugles rang out the “advance,” and away we moved.
Our route lay along that famous Grand Trunk Road leading to the North-West Provinces, and on its smooth metallic surface men and animals, fresh from the first cantonment, swung along at a smart pace, and reached the halting ground as the crowing of farm-yard tenantry proclaimed the commencement of dawn. Here to our yet inexperienced eyes the change was striking. Tents were pitched, arms piled, sentries posted, fires kindled, breakfasts served — in short, the whole force, with its long train of camp followers and beasts of burden, settled down at ease; whilst amid the novelty and routine of camp life the day glided away pleasantly enough, and at eventide retiring to rest in good time, men slept soundly and refreshed themselves for the morrow‘s work. So, in a word, began and closed the first march at the opening of our campaign.
At the break of day on the following morning the march of the force began again, and was conducted in the same manner as before, until a portion of it was suddenly detached from the main body in order to pursue mutineers through Sonthalistan. Of course hurried inquiries into the cause of this change in our pre-arranged route at once passed along the line; but as suspicious tidings of disaffection among the Sepoys at Deoghur had reached Raneegung before our departure from thence, we did not receive any very unlooked-for communication when it was told us that the garrison had mutinied at that outlandish cantonment.
A lightly equipped column — formed of European infantry and ourselves — soon therefore entered that wild and uninteresting country of the aboriginal Sonthals, who, although their homes lay in so isolated and apparently tiger-haunted a region, seemed happy and contented with their lot. From stage to stage they cheerfully supplied the Commissariat with ample provisions, and this was all the more surprising as for days together we traversed almost barren hills and dense jungles. Nevertheless the lowlands were exceedingly fertile, while horned cattle and sheep and domestic poultry appeared abundant in many of the villages through which we passed.
The column having at length threaded its way through a considerable portion of this savage-looking country, gained a breakneck road leading to a plateau on which the station of Deoghur stood. And here, for the first time, we beheld and bore witness to the influence of the appalling whirlwind of desolation that was passing over India.
Deoghur itself lay enwrapped in sepulchral silence of death, and all that was once the military cantonments in ruins and ashes; while in a well-kept garden close by, the faithful domestic servants (who had buried their murdered masters) pointed out to us the recent graves of those who had fallen a sacrifice to the relentless fury of the bloodthirsty Sepoys. They also told us that on that fatal spot a few loyal Sepoys actually killed some of the mutineers in defence of their officers.
Although many days had elapsed since the departure of the mutineers from Deoghur, still the hope of intercepting the fiends stimulated pursuit, and onwards we pressed. Over the hilly tracks, along execrable roads, through leafy labyrinths, down deep and broad Ravines, for several wearisome days we traversed long and rapid marches, but all to no purpose. The pursuit proved ineffectual, the expedition fruitless. The start of the fugitives was too great; and unencumbered with baggage or other impedimenta, they easily escaped towards the North-West Provinces.
While struggling to overtake these mutineers, we were attacked by that mortal scourge, curse, and blight of India — and the most terrible enemy in the world — the cholera, and as its assault often begins with death, a few members of the Corps fell victims to its attack.
By this time having fairly spanned Sonthalistan, and pioneered our way along the plains beyond it, we debouched from straggling villages into a lonely road, where a milestone pillar set up at the junction of several zigzag paths indexed the distance to “Holy Gyah,” according to the inscription, four miles; so we marched on, and finally fording a broad and shallow stream, entered that “venerated town” to find that even so “sacred” a place of pilgrimage had not escaped the mischievous villainy of scomidrels, revelling in the wanton destruction of property, and in all kinds of devilry.
Throughout the Bengal Presidency, Gyah is known and reverenced by the Hindus as a holy town, replete with hallowed mythological traditions; and, in a sentence, a “holy town” in India means a place crammed with quaint temples and grotesque shrines, where astounding idolatry reigns supreme, where pilgrims flock in crowds all the year round, and where those insolent and painted vagabonds, the pagan priests, luxuriate and fatten on the superstitious liberality of a bigoted and deluded people, while under pretences of sanctimonious priestcraft, they cloak sensual intrigue and sin with impunity. At the same time, however, they maintain — as numberless priests of other nationalities maintain — that they are not necessarily bound, because they are priests, to live and lead the lives of saints!
Whatever charms of antiquity Gyah may have possessed, we had no time to explore them; for immediately on our arrival there, we prepared to start in pursuit of another body of mutineers hovering about the districts bordering on the frontier of Nipal..