# On the Coromandel Coast/Chapter 15

CHAPTER XV
LOAFERS
In the afflictions, misfortunes, and tribulations of life only he who helps us is our friend.- SLOKA.
The removal of the English troops into the cantonment left the fort almost deserted; Christ Church, the scene of Schwartz's and Pohle's labours, did not remain empty. Tamil, Portuguese, and English services had always been held there, and these were continued by the missionary. He live in a small house adjoining the churchyard. It was built by Schwartz for his own accommodation, and occupied by each succeeding missionary for some years after. From its steps Bishop Heber preached his last sermon.
The Church of St. John in the cantonment was in charge of the chaplain. The troops assembled for parade-service every Sunday morning, and rejoiced in the fresh air of the open situation.
A parade-service has its attractions, and is one of the brightest scenes a military station has to offer. The men march to church to the strains of the band, and enter the building in military order. Some regiments, whenever they turn out to march, take the regimental pet with them. At Fort St. George an antelope used to accompany the Warwickshire Regiment everywhere. The old animal had died and a new one was procured to take its place. It was unfamiliar with its duties and responsibilities and ​was inclined to be refractory. Instead of trotting along in front of the men it endeavoured to scud off by itself across country. Two men were told off to lead it until it should learn its lesson. A rope was attached to each horn, and by keeping the lines taut it was under control. Every Sunday the antelope made its appearance with the troops, and as soon as they had filed into the building it was taken back to its quarters.
One Sunday, for some reason or other, there was only a single orderly to manage the regimental pet. He had great difficulty in making it keep its place just in front. When the regiment halted before the church-door the antelope turned pugnaciously upon its leader and butted him. A lively and spirited contest ensued while the men were filing into the building. The last seen of the pet was its hasty and undignified retreat in company with its keeper towards the barracks. It was impossible to tell whether the beast was pursuing the soldier or the soldier was driving the antelope.
The music at the parade-service is provided by the band. The accompaniment of the instruments to the bandsmen's voices gives a martial tone that is appropriate to a soldiers' service. If the bandmaster happens to take an interest in church-music he can give a fine rendering of the chants and hymns. A great deal depends upon whether he is sympathetic and willing to carry out all the details.
A few weeks after our arrival at Trichinopoly the half battalion of European infantry quartered there was ordered away. Less than a year later we lost the battery of artillery as well. The order came unexpectedly, and the troops were not relieved. After their departure the military duties of the garrison devolved upon the sepoys, of which there were two regiments then stationed in the place. The parade-services came to an end, although the ​officers of the Native Infantry and some of the musicians belonging to the band, who were Eurasians, attended the church. The gun that had been fired daily for more than a century was silent; and the bugles, that had sounded the reveille in the morning and the last post at night, were heard no more in the European barracks.
The infantry went to Burma and the battery was sent north, where trouble was brewing (1879). There were many regrets at the departure of the British soldiers; but none on their part. They were full of excitement over the move, anticipating active service before long. It is strange to note the eagerness with which the soldier looks forward to the real business of his life. Too often it means death; yet no man ever thinks that he will be the one to fall. It may be his comrade, but it will not be he.
As soon as an unexpected order to march is received a wave of excitement throbs through the cantonment. It is felt by all military men alike, from the commanding officer down to the smallest drummer-boy. There is an unusual briskness in the execution of duty. Social engagements are set aside, and all is orderly bustle. As the grey light of morning breaks, the loaded carts move away under the charge of their escort. The regiment, wearing trim workmanlike kharki, assembles in the barrack square. The word is given, the band strikes up a lively strain, and it marches out for the last time. An odd silence falls upon the deserted buildings. A few sweepers with brooms move through the empty rooms in leisurely fashion. The crows, grown suddenly bold, forage and explore where they have never dared to venture before ; and the sparrows chirp and squabble on the parade-ground undisturbed by the tread of man or the blast from a bugle.
In addition to the officers belonging to the Native ​Infantry, there were a number of Civil servants, as well as the staff of the South Indian Railway, who had their quarters at Trichinopoly. All alike greeted us warmly with the old-fashioned hospitality which is fast dying out in these days of many tourists and hotels. The calling began as usual, but was not such a lengthy business as in Madras. The distances were not so great and the number of people considerably smaller.
There was plenty of parochial work among the men employed on the railway and occupying subordinate posts in the different Government services. Several old pensioners had married Eurasian wives and had settled in the place. Our work among these various members of the congregation was very pleasant. They were for the most part highly respectable men and women of refined manners and gentle ways, who were earning an honest living and doing honour to the name of the class to which they belonged. It was not their fault but their misfortune that a contingent of the very poor and very dark-skinned should be living in the same place, and that these feeble folk often brought the whole community into bad odour with undiscerning Europeans by their feckless ways. Poverty was undoubtedly the lot of these, and it was impossible to raise them out of their impecuniosity. Their propensity to spend not only what they had but also what they could borrow was incorrigible. They shared with the Hindus a view of debt that was entirely different in its moral aspect from that which is inculcated in the English mind. They saw no harm in being in debt, and esteemed it a sign of importance to owe a large sum.
This fact was exemplified in the reply given to me when a native dhoby died. A great tamasha was made over his funeral. I inquired if he were a man of any distinction among his caste men, and were possessed ​of property sufficient to warrant such an expense. I was told that he was a very important person among the dhobies and had 'plenty of debts.' A man who has no security to offer in the shape of an income of any kind which may be hypothecated to the moneylender, is reckoned to be a poor man indeed and much to be pitied. A man like the defunct dhoby, who could raise money on his monthly earnings, is considered a man of substance. There is no shame attached to borrowing to the utmost and contracting debts that can never be paid.
The same shamelessness is attached to begging. As has already been said, the poor Eurasian is an inveterate beggar. It was part of my husband's work to deal with the cases that occurred in the cantonment. By his desire they were all sent to him for relief. The ladies at whose verandahs they appeared with doleful tales were only too glad to avail themselves of this arrangement.
A man who shall be called John was constantly begging, and the money he obtained went in drink. While under its influence he treated his unfortunate wife badly. The poor woman had lost heart over her house and her appearance. No sooner did she get a few things about her than John sold them for drink and left her destitute. Sometimes she was without food. In such straits she used to come to the chaplain, and her appeal was not made in vain.
One day a disreputable-looking native brought a letter which purported to be written by her in which she begged for help. It had been her custom to come to the house herself and receive the gift in person. A reply was sent intimating that no money could be given by the hand of a coolie and that she must come herself, otherwise her good-for-nothing husband would take it and spend it in drink. The next day John appeared bringing a letter written by himself which he sent in by the peon. ​It ran as follows: 'DEAR SIR,—If I don't disturb you, will you please explain the substance of an endorsement to my wife, the purport of which is that if you send her any money by the hand of a messenger her " good-for-nothing husband" will only spend it in drink? I am really surprised for such defamatory and unchristian ungentlemanly insinuation (sic), and I would wish for you to explain yourself to me if possible now. And further I would ask you as a favour to let me know what amount of help assistance you have rendered to my wife for the last two months' stay she was here, which shall be refunded to you by me, as you are not one from whom a respectable woman can ask for assistance. Further anon.—Yours faithfully, JOHN.'
John was ordered to take himself off, an order he met with the blandest, most insinuating smile. Instead of departing he drew a little nearer and begged to be allowed 'to say one little word.' Would the reverend gentleman be so very kind as to give him a rupee, for really he and his wife were starving. As for himself, of course he did not mind starving. Here his fat face spread into a still broader smile. He only begged assistance for his wife, whose health was too delicate to allow her to starve without serious results.
It was impossible to be angry with such people. One could only laugh and treat the plausible beggar like a naughty child.
John's wife died soon after this, and after her death he went down south, where he had worked before and hoped to be employed again. Some years later he turned up, smiling as usual, and begged for money to go to Madras. He produced a testimonial to the effect that he had served soberly and satisfactorily for four years. On the strength of this excellent character he obtained help, and with profuse thanks went on his way. About a ​month afterwards he appeared once more with a letter in which he said that he had not been able to 'push' himself forward from Erode to Madras and that he had been ill. He added: 'It is more prudent to go back to Trevandrum than play the part of a wandering Jew. Can you please be so charitably obliging to pay my fare to Madura.' (It was on the way to Trevandrum.) 'I have not a cash in hand to find my way as far there. I am totally a changed man; have entirely left taking any drink.' He was sent on to Madura with a ticket that was purchased for him, and we never saw him again.
Mathew was a fine, strong, ablebodied man, who was always on the tramp, professedly looking for employment, but in reality begging. He passed on from one place to another, staying a short time at each station until he had exhausted the patience and the charity of the kind-hearted English residents. He ought to have been working at some honest trade, but his long tongue stood in his light. No sooner did he get something to do than he talked himself out of it. If he committed a slight error and it was pointed out by his superior, he at once began to justify and excuse himself. His employer lost patience and dismissed him. My husband helped him now and then from the Poor Fund, and at his own request gave him a letter testifying to his sobriety and ability to work. At the end of it was a note to the effect that 'this letter is not intended to assist the bearer in begging, but is for the purpose of procuring employment.'
In a few months' time Mathew returned bringing the epistle. He handed it back with an injured expression, and explained that it was useless; no one would give him anything after reading it. Would his reverence be so good as to write another leaving out the last few lines about begging? That part spoilt the whole; it was ​positively 'obscene'—he probably meant obstructive—and did more harm than good.
The poor Eurasian knows the value of a long tongue, and that when the patience of the listener is exhausted a rupee is produced, more as a means of getting rid of a troublesome person than of assisting poverty. Mathew relied on this device with success. He had found it prevail more than once with the chaplain himself. The Indian bungalow lends itself to the system. The open doors, which cannot be closed because of the heat, allow the voice to penetrate to every corner. The suppliant stands under the portico and pours forth his tale of woe in a plaintive voice more irritating and distracting than the croak of the verandah crow or the piercing shriek of the squirrel. In Mathew' s case the production of the desired coin did not always bring immediate deliverance. From force of habit he still talked on until entreated to take himself off.
'Can I go, sir?' he asked one morning after the bestowal of the gift.
'Yes, yes, go,' was the reply.
'Very well, sir, and I thank——'
'I quite understand; go, Mathew, go.'
'Yes, sir; you see, sir——'
'My good man, will you go?'
'If I go down the line they say——'
'Go away, I am busy; I can't listen to you now.'
'Perhaps I had better go up north——'
'Go north! go to Bombay! go to China if you like, only Go!'
One more echo from the verandah that penetrated to my adjacent sitting-room must be recorded.
'Well, who are you?' asked the chaplain, searching the features of an olive-complexioned gentleman of the road. ​ 'My name is Sylvester,' was the reply of its owner, as he smiled confidently and assumed a pose of becoming humility and propitiation.
'What do you want?'
'Please, your honour, I want to go to Negapatam.'
A slight pause ensued, and the padre exclaimed:
'I've seen your face before.'
The statement was received with a start of surprise and an aggrieved refutation.
'No, sir; I've never been here before. I've never set foot in Trichinopoly before, please your honour.'
The chaplain regarded him with as much sternness as he was capable of assuming and said:
'A year ago I sent you from here to Erode.'
'No, sir, I assure your honour I have never been in the place before.'
'And six months before that I sent you to Madura.'
'No, sir.' 'But I did.' 'No, sir.' At this point the chaplain retired to his room to consult the vagrant notebook. He returned with it in his hand.
'There's your name and it occurs more than once. I remember perfectly well having a ticket bought for you each time and sending the peon to see that you got into the train.'
'No, sir. I've never been here before. Some other man using my name, only, sir.'
The injured innocence of the tone in which this was said was inimitable; but it was not convincing.
'Nonsense! You are not telling me the truth. I can't have anything to do with bad men who don't tell the truth.'
'No, sir, please, sir!'
'Go away; I have nothing for men like you.'
'No, sir!' was the melancholy reply as Sylvester sadly watched the padre's retreat to his study. There ​was an interval of a quarter of an hour broken only by the swish of the punkah and the scratch of the busy pen. Then through the ferns and palms of the verandah came a deprecating voice:
'Please, sir, I was afraid!'
It brought the chaplain out again. Whether the truth is forthcoming or not, the poor creatures must be helped, as they are physically incapable of helping themselves by working.
'It is very wicked not to tell the truth.'
'Please, your honour, your honour knows that I was afraid!'
'You should tell the truth.'
'So I did, your honour.'
'No, you didn't. You said that you had never been here before. I can't help a man who tells lies.'
'No, sir; but please this time to give some little assistance.'
'There's two annas for you to get some food; and when you can tell the truth you may come again and I will consider your case.'
This love of itinerary begging brings the unemployable round periodically. The Poor Fund was intended partly for them and partly for the resident poor. Some of these were unemployable also, but a pretence was made to give them work where they were able to do it. Coarse sewing was provided for the women, and anything that was possible for the men who had neither strength nor skill. An old man named Richards thought that he had done sufficient to earn an honest rupee when he had written a long letter. A clause begging for an increase to his allowance was usually inserted either at the beginning or the end——'DEAR SIR,—I humbly beg to inform your honour that by this small pittance an East Indian cannot maintain for his whole monthly expense. I beg your ​honour to increase something my allowance. Jesus spat on the ground, and made clay of the spittle, and He anointed the eyes of the blind man with the clay. St. John 9.6, also 7. Here the ground meaning common people, or low people, or servants who living by their superior's favour through their labour. For instance in the book of Prophet Isaiah 1 ch. 2 ver. It is written (sic) Here, heavens, and give Ear Earth:——Here the heavens denotes the Kings, princes, rulers, and Dukes and Nobles——And the word Earth denotes common and low people or servants. "Spat" meaning, Upbraid or like to spit another man's face.——Jesus rebuked the common people for their pride and warned them not show proud like Great and Nobles. By his rebuke Jesus said unto them, ye are common people, ye are servants, ye shall not be admitted like great men. Dear sir, I am a maimed man; one of mine eyes is lost and I am turned very old. Respected sir, I humbly beg your honour, by your great kindness to increase mine allowance as to be sufficient for the month I shall praise only the name of the Lord and I shall be very thankful to your honour. If I use spectacles I can see a little. Dear sir, I remember once as I told as my Christian name is Manuel. But my Christian name is Philip, not Manuel. It is one of my relation's names. Upon some reasons when I was yet small, neighbours used to call me by the name of Manuel. When I was unawares the question came, therefore suddenly I told Manuel at the day when you enquired of my circumstances. I am, sir, your most faithful P. RICHARDS. With spectacle 5 days required for writing this letter.'
Poor old Richards appeared before our bungalow at Bangalore some years later. He was quite blind, and was led by a man who, he said, was his brother. He was passing under the name of Davis, and was asked for an explanation. He assured the chaplain that it was not ​his fault; he did not call himself Davis. His neighbours had given him the name because it belonged to a half-brother who was taking care of him. Here his companion, who was the half-brother alluded to, tried to make matters clearer:
'You see, sir, this is how it is. We both had the same mother, but we each had two fathers.'
There was another old character of the name of David, who was on the Poor Fund. He used to delight in black clothes, and was the proud possessor of a clerical coat and hat much the worse for wear. He was asked why he did not work for his living, for, though between sixty and seventy, he was active and able to get about. He replied that he was a preacher by trade, and trade was slack.
'Not at all,' replied the chaplain. 'You shall preach to the servants of the house, and so earn a rupee a month.'
The arrangement pleased all parties. The servants, who were Roman Catholics and good souls according to their lights, liked listening to the old man as he held forth volubly in their own tongue. He used to come regularly once a week. I often caught sight of him walking about the compound in the most businesslike fashion, gathering his flock and persuading some of the heathen to come in as well. He was always neat and tidy, with white trousers, long black coat, clerical hat, white beard, and silver-knobbed walking-stick. He took himself very seriously and earnestly, and was supremely happy in his appointment. Once a month the butler came to the study with the information, 'David done preach, sir, and asking pay.' The first time his rupee was given he sent in for another, saying that the first rupee was his 'church pay,' by which he meant his allowance out of the Poor Fund. So for the future he was given two rupees. ​ Occasionally Europeans appeared with requests for assistance. For these people one felt much pity. They could not accommodate themselves to the conditions of life in the bazaars like the Eurasians, who were born in the country; nor did the curry and rice and fruits suit them as they suited the man of mixed blood. There was also more danger from exposure to the sun with the European than with the country-born. One April, the hottest month of the year with the exception of May, three Italian musicians paid us a visit and asked for money to pay their rail-fare on towards one of the large seaports. We invited them to come that evening and give us some music in the garden. There was a bright moon, and their music was charming; but their pleasure was even greater than ours in our appreciation of their performance. They left the station the next day, and we heard no more about them. English, Germans, and Americans down on their luck passed through Trichinopoly and were helped as far as the funds would allow. They were usually of the mechanic class. Once or twice we had men of good education whose pockets were temporarily empty and whose credit had come to an end. One of these, formerly a planter and afterwards an engineer in a manufacturing company, was making his way home as best he could. The company had gone bankrupt and was unable to pay him his salary. His planting venture had been equally unlucky. He was glad of dinner in the verandah and a shakedown on one of the verandah couches until the small hours of the morning when the mail train left. The Europeans passed completely out of our lives, and never returned like the Eurasians. Did they rejoin their relations in temperate climes, or did they lay down their lives in some Indian hospital friendless and forgotten?