# The Dilemma/Chapter XVI

CHAPTER XVI.
For poor Yorke, returning to Mustaphabad from his pilgrimage in camp, on learning that Olivia was actually married, the outward circumstances of the time were eminently calculated to foster the desire which possessed him to be miserable. He could not, indeed, but admit feeling a pleasurable sensation on finding a well-thatched roof over his head again, and doors to keep out the dust; but life at Mustaphabad was very dismal, and the prospect of living through the monotony of the long hot season seemed, in his temper of mind, utterly dreary. There was nothing to work for, nor work of any sort to be done. Drills were over, and everybody who could get away on any excuse had gone to the hills; some to remain there till October, others, including Spragge, on sixty days' leave — at the end of which time it might be hoped the first fall of rain would have restored parched nature and somewhat bated the heat. A few minutes passed in the sepoys' lines at daybreak sufficed to dispose of all regimental business, when such of the officers as were present with the regiment assembled to drink tea on the shady side of the mess bungalow, and discuss the extremely small points of interest offered by the local papers being chiefly tantalizing accounts of picnics and cricket-matches at the hill-stations, till the advancing sun came over the roof and drove them to the shelter of their respective houses. By this time it would be about seven o'clock. Then the doors are closed to keep out the rising, dust-laden wind, and the solitary occupant of his bungalow has to get through the long day as best he can, trying to read books ​in which he feels no interest, perhaps trying to kill the hours by sleep, till the western wall of the station racquet-court throws enough shade over it to allow of the players assembling there. This, and the plunge in the station bath, which lies handy to the court, and whither the players' servants repair at sunset with their masters' changes of raiment, is the only part of the day worth living for, the evening mess-dinner being an ordeal to be dreaded, for by this time the different members of the mess have completely thrashed out each other's ideas. "Is this life," thought Yorke, riding slowly to the mess through the dusk, one evening after his bath — "is this life to last forever? Each day so long to spend, so short to look back upon! And this is called a military career! Even study is impossible. I can read no longer for reading's sake — shall I never find any useful work to do?" Nor was his frame of mind made more contented by a letter received that day with the English mail, distributed to the station during the afternoon, which his servant had brought down to the bath-house, and which Yorke read as he dressed after his plunge. It was from his only sister, who lived with his mother in the small but favourite cathedral town of Wiltonbury, and, as usual, was full of the exciting news which such a residence was calculated to supply; the most important item being the arrival of a new incumbent to a proprietary chapel of the town, whom both mother and daughter had met at a tea-party on the previous evening. "He is such a beautiful preacher," said the fair writer, "and evidently a real Christian, which is more than can be said for all the clergyman of the Close, whose service, as Mr. Morgan says, is so much of the senses and so little from the heart. But he prays that his ministrations here may be blessed for good, in the whole place as well as in his parish. He expressed great interest about you, and hoped your profession would not dispose you to worldly-mindedness, but said that temptation was often a means of grace. Indeed, he told us a most interesting anecdote after tea about a young officer, belonging to the Indian army I think he said, who drank himself to death, leaving a wife and six children quite penniless, but whose deathbed was beautifully touching — so much repentance, and such perfect trust and thankfulness to fall asleep. And oh! my dearest Arthur, when I think of all the temptations you are exposed to in the dissipations of an Indian cantonment, with its gaiety and elegant mess-rooms and billiard-tables and smoking, I often tremble lest they should be too great a burden for you to bear. But, as Mr. Morgan says, we must put our trust above, and all will be for the best.
"We have had a sad example here, which brought you very forcibly to our minds. Young Johnny Mills, who had such a splendid opening in the county bank, has become dreadfully dissipated; they say he is to be seen standing about the Red Lion at all hours of the night, and then late in coming in to business in the morning, till the manager has threatened to dismiss him if he is late again. Poor Mrs. Mills and the girls are in dreadful trouble about him. As mamma truly says, it seems quite providential now he was not allowed to carry his attentions further. And now, my ever dearest brother, with heartfelt prayers for your happiness in this world and the next, ever your fondly attached sister,
"Rebecca Yorke,"
"This may be a scene of trial, if not exactly of temptation," thought the young man, with a bitter smile, as he looked round the mess-table after the cloth was removed, and surveyed the company — Major Dumble the commandant in the centre, with his hookah, last relic of a bygone age, and his tumbler of cold brandy-and-water, the rest with cigars, and the black bottles before them containing such portions of beer as remained over from dinner; Brevet-Major Passey, who was living en garçon at the mess, his wife and daughter having gone to the hills; Grumbull, the doctor, doing likewise in the absence of his family in England, with a guest seated by him, a young medical friend, who was passing through Mustaphabad on his way to join his regiment; Captain Braddon puffing his cigar, grim and silent; Braywell, the only other lieutenant present; Ensign Dobson, and little Johnny Raugh, the junior of his grade, who had just been appointed to the regiment, and was greatly impressed with a sense of the fastness of military life as typified by the 76th N. I. The servants had left the room, dimly lighted by oil-wicks in glasses attached to the bare whitewashed walls, and the punkah, pulled by a sleepy man in the veranda, flapped languidly to and fro.
"Well, boys," said Major Dumble, a ​large, stout man, looking round the table with an amiably stupid expression on his face, "what's the news to-day?"
"Can't expect any news, major," replied Dobson, "in this awful dull place. Dullest station ever was in, I think," added the young man yawning — "wish the hot weather were over."
"Well, I rather like the hot weather," observed the major, blandly; "there's no drill, for one thing." Here a languid smile possessed the company, all except the visitor, who did not take the joke; and the major recovering himself added, "At least drill in moderation is very well, but I must say I enjoy the long days; plenty of time to one's self, and no interruptions. I like to have time to turn round in."
As Major Dumble was known not to possess a book in his house, save the Bengal Army List and the Military Pay Code, and was not burdened with correspondence of any sort, his day in his bungalow must unquestionably have afforded him ample time wherein to perform that operation. But it was generally understood that the worthy commandant of the 76th distributed his time pretty equally between refreshing naps, discussing bazaar gossip with his servants, and feeding his poultry, the major being a connoisseur in fowls, and supplying his surplus stock in a friendly way to the mess at cost price.
"Oh, it's all very well for you, major," continued Dobson, "who have all the business of the regiment to look after, but I'm blessed if I can get half-an-hour's work a day out of my company. These hot-weather days are disgustingly long; I almost wish sometimes there was a little drill going on, to kill time and give a fellow a little exercise."
"You should play racquets," observed Braddon; "you are sure to go to the bad if you eat three heavy meals a day and don't take exercise."
"Oh, I can't be bothered with racquets," replied the ensign; "it's too much trouble, and makes one so hot."
"Ah yes, these military gentlemen find all play and no work a little tedious," said Grumbull to his friend; "but we medical officers have to work away just the same all the year round; hot weather or cold, no holiday for us."
"How many men have you got in hospital now, doctor?" asked Braddon.
"It isn't the number of patients that make the work," replied Grumbull; "it's the system. One must visit the hospital morning and evening, and all the routine has to be gone through just the same whether the hospital is full or empty; returns to be filled in, and stores to be counted, and all the rest of it. They turn us medical officers into regular clerks," he continued to his friend, "as you will find when you come to have medical charge of a regiment."
"Yes, it is quite like cutting grindstones with razors," said Braddon; "you ought to have a secretary, at the least, to keep the medical accounts of the regiment, so that you might give your undivided attention to your five sick patients. That is the number in to-day's return, I think."
"You are very satirical, as usual," replied Grumbull; "but I think when a man has had a scientific education and taken a university degree, he might be trusted to issue an ounce of quinine, or a scrap of lint, without filling up a return in duplicate."
"Ah, I can't go with you there, doctor," broke in the major; "where you have stores, there you must in course have returns, — else how are you to audit? As old Counter, the late auditor-general, a precious long-headed fellow he was too, used always to say, 'Show me a voucher, and then I shall know where I am.' Why, bless me!" continued Dumble, with enthusiasm, as reminiscences of his former occupation crowded upon his memory, "when I was in the pay department, I have had as many as five hundred vouchers passing through my office in a week; and never an arrear of any sort, either, everything audited up to within fifteen months of date."
"So you are a university man," said the young guest of the evening to his host; "Edinburgh, I suppose?"
"No, Aberdeen."
"Ah, well, no doubt, a university degree is a very nice thing — it gives a stamp to a man, so to speak; but I think nowadays the rising men in the profession go more to the London hospitals, and come out as M.R.C.S. That is what I did myself. There are so many openings, you see, for a fellow who makes a name for himself in the hospitals — dresserships and clinical lectureships, and what not. Both Fiston and Thelusson wanted me to stop on in London," added the young man, modestly, "but I was anxious to see something of the world, and to investigate some forms of tropical diseases, so I look an assistant-surgeonship. I am very anxious myself to get some experience of cholera, for example. ​Where is one likely to meet with it, do you think?"
"You need be under no anxiety on that score, sir," said Braddon; "you will find it very accommodating and ready to wait upon you wherever you are."
"By the way," said the young medical man, turning to his host, "have you read O'Hara on cholera? Just out, you know, published by Churchill & Co."
"No, I haven't," replied Grumbull; "and, what is more, I don't mean to. I don't want O'Hara or anybody else to tell me what cholera is, — me a man who has been twenty years in the country."
"I suppose, then, you go in for the germ theory?"
"No, I don't believe in germs (Dr. Grumbull pronounced this word as if it were spelt jurrums), or any new-fangled stuff of the sort. Look here, my good sir," he continued, bringing down his hand with a thump on the mess-table, "you have cholera on the plains of Bengal, and you have cholera on the highlands of Thibet, fifteen thousand feet above the sea, haven't you? Well, then, I say, isn't the thing as plain as a pike-staff? It's the variations of temperature that cause cholera, of course, and I don't care what anybody else says."
"The cholera is an awful thing when it breaks out in a European regiment," observed the major after a pause.
"Have you ever served with a European regiment, sir?" asked the stranger, turning towards him.
"No, sir; and never wish to. The European soldier is a queer customer sometimes, I can tell you. I heard once of a man in the old Diehards; the captain of his company was finding fault with him because his knapsack wasn't straight, and he turned round and bawled out, 'I haven't got eyes in the back of my head, have I?' Now no sepoy would have answered his officer like that."
"Ah, and do you remember that story of Poynings and the European gunner at the siege of Bhurtpore?" said Major Passey, a small, weatherbeaten old fellow, with a red face and white hair, who had remained silent up to this point.
"Ah, what a fine man Poynings was!" continued the commandant. "He exchanged out of the 19th Lancers when they went home in 1832, into the 23d Dragoons."
"No, the 22d Dragoons," said Passey, in correction; "the 23d went home in '33."
"Ay, so it was. Poynings was commanding the 22d at Cawnpore, when we were there in 1834. He would sit at mess over the bottle till gunfire the next morning, and then his charger would be brought to the door, and he would ride off to parade as steady and fresh as if he had been in bed all night. He was a man of very good family, too, was Poynings; he had a cousin an Irish peer. Ah, those were fine times! wheat was down then to forty seers, and you might keep a horse for five rupees a month. The 22d lost a hundred men from cholera that very year."
"Ah, what a splendid corps the 22d was!" observed Passey, after a pause, by way of keeping up the conversation.
"It was indeed," said the major. "Cawnpore was a fine station in those days for a young fellow to learn his duty at; brigade-parades and grand guard-mounting regularly once a month, all through the cold weather. Old General Mudge was commanding the division. He died in 1836. It was thought he would have got into council if he had lived."
"Wasn't it Mudge who had the row with Poynings, because he inspected the 22d in his carriage?" asked Passey.
"Yes, to be sure, so it was. Mudge couldn't ride, you know; he had been in the stud department for a great many years; but he spoke the language like a native. Only fancy, he was a regimental field-officer when Lord Lake was commander-in-chief."
"There's a fine picture of Lord Lake at Government House in Calcutta," observed Passey.
"Ay, and of Warren Hastings too," continued the major. "When I entered the service, the colonel of my battalion (we were the second battalion of the 38th then) had known Warren Hastings. He remembers seeing him arrive at Calcutta from up country, and get out of his palanquin, with silk stockings on, and buckles on his shoes. Only think, silk stockings and buckles in a palanquin! Dear me! what changes one sees in dress, to be sure!" continued Dumble, philosophically. "How do you like the new tunic, Passey?"
"Have there been many changes in the uniform of the army since you entered the service, major?" asked young Raugh, to whom the subject of dress was one at present of leading interest, and to whom it had been a blow and disappointment, on joining the regiment a few weeks before, to find that the officers ​had already taken to white jackets, and that there would be no opportunity of airing his brand-new scarlet coatee till the next cold season.
"Changes! I believe you," replied his commanding officer. "Why, when I went to wait on the Marquess of Hastings on first arrival, with a letter of introduction — it was from Hambrowe & Co., the great wine-merchants — they supplied his lordship; my father used to get his wine from them too, and very good wine it was; — well, when I waited on Lord Hastings, he was sitting at his desk in full uniform, with his cocked-hat on the table before him — and that in the middle of the hot weather too!"
"Ay," said Passey, in support of this statement, "I can remember, too, when I came out — that was in Lord Amherst's time — the adjutant-general used to sit in his office in uniform all day."
"Oh yes! Lord Amherst, he was a good governor-general enough," said Dumble, a little testily, as if impatient at this interruption to the logical sequence of his thoughts; "but he wasn't nearly so fine-looking a man as Lord Hastings. Lord Hastings was commander-in-chief as well as governor-general, and commanded in the Mahratta campaigns. Then there was Lady Hastings too. She was a countess in her own right."
"Talking of campaigns," broke in Braywell, whose comparative youth had prevented him from taking a share in these interesting reminiscences, and who had been maintaining his enforced silence with visible impatience, — "talking of campaigns — it is just a year since we finished the Sontalia campaign."
"Was your regiment in the Sontalia campaign, sir?" asked the young surgeon.
"No, not the regiment," replied Braywell; "I was there on the staff — baggage-master to the right column; and precious little I have got for it either. Here I am back again on regimental duty; might just as well have never gone down there. Yes; this was the very day of the battle of Deoghur, and a very hot affair it was."
"Must have been," observed Braddon, "with the hot winds blowing."
"You're such a fellow for chaff, Braddon," remonstrated Braywell; "you know what I mean perfectly well. I was on the right of the line, with the brigadier; there was a detachment of the 84th N.I. there, and things were looking awkward. The jungle was so thick you couldn't see twenty yards ahead of you, and the arrows and spears were coming in like paint. I never saw anything like it. Our fellows were at it for about four hours, and must have fired full fifty rounds or more before the enemy gave way. They were there in swarms, but not a man showing himself, the crafty villains — most determined fellows — and their arrows coming in like paint ——"
"Was anybody in the gallant detachment killed or wounded?" asked Braddon.
"Their arrows coming in like paint ——" continued Braywell, — too intent on the pleasure of securing a new listener to heed the interruption.
"Oh, confound it! I can't stand this," said Braddon in a low voice to Yorke — "we have had this fifty times before; come along and have a cigar outside." So saying, he rose from the mess-table, and Yorke followed, leaving the two veterans dozing over their brandy-and-water — young Raugh sitting opposite to Braywell, with wide-open eyes, listening with unabated attention to the oft-told tale of the battle of Deoghur, while the young assistant surgeon, leaning back in his chair, and running his hand through his fine head of hair, was also attending with as much interest as could reasonably be expected from a scientific mind occupied for the moment with mere military topics.