# On the Coromandel Coast/Chapter 25

CHAPTER XXV
GINGEE AND ITS GHOST.
The quality of gold is known by means of the touchstone ; the strength of a bull is known by the weight it will carry ; the character of a man is known by his sayings ; but there is no means by which we can know the thoughts of a woman.–Sloka.
Gingee, the old rock fortress of North Arcot, is not as easy of access as towns like Cuddalore and Pondicherry, which stand upon lines of railway. It is, therefore, not visited by the ordinary tourist. The Government official who goes through the district with his servants and tents has an opportunity of seeing it in the performance of his duty. Mr. Henry Sewell, with whom I was staying, had just returned from one of his periodical tours. His wife had accompanied him, and she had much to say about the old fort that was of interest.
The fortifications extend over three rocky hills that are in close proximity to each other. Being perched up on high, the fort has not suffered such terrible things at the hands of its enemies as Fort St. David, which stands on level ground. Gingee was once a place of great strength ; it was the home of the ancestors of Sivajee, but not his birthplace, as has sometimes been stated. As early as the year 1382 it was a stronghold of importance. The date of its foundation is not known ; it is conjectured that it was built early in the fourteenth century. There is a legend connected with the event which ascribes the ​foundation to a worthy Naick of Conjeeverum, a town some forty-five miles distant, on the plain of the Coromandel Coast.
This Naick, whose name was Tupakala, was a devout follower of Vishnu. He possessed a garden which he tended with love and care. The flowers grew and bloomed luxuriantly. Being a worshipper at the temple of Conjeeverum, he dedicated his garden to the deity Varada Rajah Swami, the pig incarnation of Vishnu. Every blossom that arrived at perfection without blight from insects or weather he presented at the shrine. One day his servants came to him in terror with the news that a boar of enormous size had entered the enclosure and was rooting up the plants. The Naick called for his bow and arrows, and hurried to the scene of devastation. His garden was well-nigh destroyed. In furious anger he chased the mischievous beast from one corner to another, shooting his arrows at it, which it always succeeded in evading. Finally it escaped unhurt from the garden, and went off towards the jungle. The Naick was determined to kill it lest it should return and renew its depredations. He followed closely at its heels and it led him into the jungle. He kept pace with it, and whenever he had an opportunity he discharged an arrow. Every time, however, he drew his bow, in some mysterious manner the beast escaped injury.
At length the pursued and pursuer reached the hills at Gingee. The boar ran up the hill on which the temple now stands; the Naick followed closely. Suddenly a cleft appeared in the rock and the boar entered. As it did so its shape changed, and Tupakala found himself in the presence of his deity. The god informed him that he had assumed the shape of the animal and ravaged his garden to test his fidelity. He had purposely led him to this spot that he might point out to his faithful follower ​a place where he desired a temple to be raised in his honour. It was to be dedicated to him as Varada Rajah Swami, the pig avatar or incarnation of Vishnu.
The Naick prostrated himself and expressed his willingness to execute the order of the swami. At the same time he explained that excepting his beloved garden and beautiful flowers he possessed no riches. It would cost money to build a temple such as would be worthy of the diety. Vishnu directed him to pay a visit to an ascetic, who was living on one of the hills close by.
This ascetic had spent his life in searching for the wonderful plant that has the same property as the philosopher's stone, of turning certain objects into pure gold. He had discovered the plant and brought it home to his hermitage on the rock. The leaves required boiling, and a holy man had to be thrown into the infusion, when he would instantly be changed into gold. While the ascetic pondered on the means of procuring a holy man for his experiment the Naick appeared, and told him of his adventure and the commission which the swami had charged him with. The hermit said nothing, but he divined from the incidents that had occurred that Tupakala must be a devout worshipper of the deity and a holy man. He determined to make the experiment at once with the wonder-working plant and sacrifice his visitor. Bidding the Naick be seated, he built up a fire and prepared the infusion. As soon as it should boil it was his intention to seize the stranger and plunge him into the caldron.
As the Naick sat by the fire the evil that was in the mind of the ascetic became known to him. He closely watched the water in the pot. At the very first sign of seething he took hold of the ascetic and cast him into the infusion. The water closed over him, and as Tupakala watched he saw the body turn to a bright yellow. He poured away the liquid and cut off a limb. It was of ​pure gold and solid throughout, a heavy bar of the precious metal.
He passed the night in the hermit's cave, and at sunrise he rose and looked at the golden figure to see if it were really true or only a dream. There was the body shining in the rays of the newly risen sun, and wonderful to relate the arm had grown again. Here was an inexhaustible source of wealth, and the Naick made good use of it. He built the temple and the great fort that subsequently became one of the most important strongholds in South India. When the building was finished and the treasury filled to overflowing, the wonderful image of gold, whole and unblemished, was thrown into the tank inside the fort, where it is said to be still lying.
Gingee passed from the hands of one ruler to another, and then was captured by that prince of robbers and freebooters, Sivajee, who held it for twenty-two years, and who put in a Mahratta Rajah as Governor. It was about this period that the two English officers were carried off from Fort St. David and imprisoned there. Aurungzebe's troops wrested it from the Mahratta Prince (1698) and occupied it for a time. The French attacked and took it in 1750, but it proved very unhealthy for the Europeans. During the eleven years that it remained in their possession they lost twelve hundred men out of the garrison. It was taken by the English (1761), since which date it has been without a garrison. The fort has one of those horrible places of torture such as found favour with Oriental rulers in the old days, and would be used again were European influence removed. That at Gingee is in the form of a huge boulder which has a natural well-like hollow. Into this living tomb prisoners were lowered to die of starvation. There is a similar kind of oubliette at Trichinopoly in the form of a cleft of considerable depth in the living rock. No one who was lowered into the ​cleft could get out without assistance. It is terrible to think of the deeds done in those days by men who knew no pity. Mutilation, the cutting off of hands, tongue, nose, and ears were ordinary means of punishment for the lesser crimes of thieving and lying. Impaling, starvation, and imprisonment in places unsuited to human health and life were the reward of the greater crimes. Manucci, the Venetian doctor who was at the court of Aurungzebe for many years, mentions them. He treated many patients whose noses had been cut off, and gave them substitutes for the lost member by peeling down a portion of the flesh of the forehead and fashioning it into the semblance of a nose. He speaks with some satisfaction of the success of his efforts, and says that the result was good and the disfigurement much lessened. It is as well that the hoary old rocks cannot relate what they have seen and heard. Their tales would make the blood run cold.
The natives believe that ghosts and demons haunt the deserted fortress. Mr. and Mrs. Sewell were in camp for several days at the foot of the Gingee rock. At night as soon as it was dark strange sounds came from the direction of the fort. They were like the cries of some forsaken creature left to starve and die in the prisoners' well on the rock. The camp servants declared that they were the cries of ghosts and devils. Being of a practical turn of mind Mrs. Sewell received their assurances with scepticism. The peons were disturbed that the mistress should think that they were telling 'lie-words,' and to prove the truth of their statements they brought an old man from the village to support them in their story.
He had a terrible tale to relate. Many years ago when he was a boy his grandfather went up the rock one afternoon alone to search for treasure. While the sun was above the horizon he was safe, but the moment it touched the earth and disappeared every evil spirit awoke ​in its full strength and power. His grandfather, absorbed in his task, did not notice how the light was fading, and he was overtaken by darkness in the midst of his search. The old man remembered how they listened and watched for him as night came on with its tropical swiftness, growing more anxious each minute that passed. Suddenly a horrible shriek fell upon their ears. It was followed by cries such as might still be heard after dark. All night they listened and watched, not daring to climb the rock, their blood curdled by the screams of the demons. It was not until the sun was well above the horizon that they ventured to look for the old treasure-seeker. They found him dead with every bone in his body broken, and his features mangled and crushed beyond recognition. It was evident, quite evident, said the ancient villager, what had happened. His grandfather had encountered the evil spirit that guarded the treasure, and it had killed him.
The cries were to be heard every night while Mrs. Sewell was there. They were uncanny and could not be accounted for. Jackals abounded, but no jackal could have shrieked in that manner. Their cry is unmistakable. Neither did the sounds come from a leopard nor from a tiger or wild cat. The peons were triumphant with their ghost and devil theory since no other solution could be suggested for the mystery.
Some months later Mrs. Sewell was travelling by rail towards the hills. She had to change at a certain station. Suddenly she was startled by the sound of a cry. 'The Gingee ghost !' she exclaimed.
Led by the uncanny wailing she went in search of the demon. Standing on the platform, half hidden by a pile of luggage and fruit-baskets, was a cage containing a couple of baby hyænas. The mystery was solved and the demons stood revealed. In later years I heard that self-same cry on the Nilgiri hills below Dodabetta. It was a ​weird scream of a nature to suggest a devilish origin. Remembering the story of the Gingee ghost, however, I was able to assure the timid servants that it was not a devil.
Natives believe that evil spirits assume the shapes of animals. The sight of the hyæna would not have brought conviction to their minds that the disturber of the night was nothing but a hungry animal. Soon after we arrived in Trichinopoly a murder case came before the cantonment magistrate. A villager had killed an old woman, a stranger, who was travelling south, begging her way along. The poor old body had been forsaken by her family, who had gone to Ceylon. She was in search of them. The man was in his field having just finished his day's work. The sun had set, and it was the moment when the devils of India are supposed to awake and go forth on their errands of mischief and spite. He saw the old woman approaching and took her for a devil. Snatching up his marmotty, he rushed at her and slew her on the spot, in the full belief that he had conferred a benefit upon the hamlet by his prompt action. This was the only reason and excuse he could offer for his conduct.
Although many Europeans died of disease and were killed round the old Fort of Gingee, there is no sign of a cemetery to be seen in or near the place. A piece of ground must have been set apart for that purpose, as was customary at every station occupied by Europeans, whether English, French, or of any other nation. Probably tombstones were erected over the graves to mark the spot. If this were so, the monuments were destroyed when the fort was given back to the native Prince. The stones, no longer protected, were carried off by the inhabitants of the town that lies at the foot of the hills. The Hindu discovered long ago that a monumental slab ​makes an excellent curry-stone. Caste scruples have not interfered with the preparation of curry-stuffs or the building of houses with the spoils of a Christian cemetery. A few engraved stones have been rescued in various parts of the Presidency; numbers that might have borne valuable family records and preserved names that live in history have been lost for ever.
Of late years Government has interfered to preserve old burial-grounds where Europeans have been interred from desecration and destruction; and a record has been made of the most important of the names mentioned.
The great plain of the Carnatic lying between the Coromandel Coast on the east and the plateau lands of Mysore on the west was once studded with forts of various degrees of strength. Many of them have been utterly destroyed like that at Trichinopoly. Some are in ruins like Fort St. David and Gingee. A few remain intact like Fort St. George in Madras, although, as a place of defence, it would stand little chance if the artillery of modern days were brought to bear upon it.
The earliest were mere earthworks faced with sun-dried bricks. They were sufficiently strong to protect the inhabitants from such aggressors as were armed only with pikes and bows and arrows. When the more warlike Mahrattas descended upon the Carnatic from the northwest, they took possession of the old mud forts without difficulty, and pulling them down, rebuilt them with dressed stone. Their method of building showed considerable military skill, and it has been conjectured that they had Europeans among them to teach them the art of fortification. One of the best specimens of fort building by the Mahrattas is to be found at Vellore, whither I went to pay a visit during my residence at Trichinopoly. The fort is situated on the plain near some rocky hills which at the ​period of its erection were too far off to command it. The massive blocks of stone that form the walls and bastions were dressed with such precision that in putting them together no mortar was necessary. Each stone fitted like the section of a puzzle into its place. The labour-most probably forced-must have been infinite to shape and build on such a system. Walls and bastions still stand as firmly and symmetrically as when the builders left them; not by virtue of the blood sacrifices, too probably human, that were made as the foundations were laid, but by the consummate skill of the master-mind who directed the painstaking mason. The evidence of this enormous amount of labour is striking throughout the Presidency. The stones had to be quarried and carried to the spot where the building was to be erected. The earth had to be excavated to form the moat that surrounded every fort that did not crown a hill. There were no cranes, no powerful engines to lessen the task. The toilers had nothing but primitive tools, strong ropes, and their own strength to serve them. The labour force was unrestricted by any limitations in the matter of age or hours. The full wage of an ablebodied man did not exceed fourpence a day. His wife was content with twopence, and his children earned only half that amount. The length of the day of labour was from sunrise to sunset, and the wages were paid in food at a valuation set by the employer himself.
The fort at Vellore is eloquent of the busy past. Every stone tells its tale. When finished it was reckoned the strongest building in the Carnatic. A testimony to its strength lies in the fact that it never fell to Haider Ali, although he blockaded it and cleared the country round it of food supplies. As is usual with Indian forts, there is a temple and a palace within the walls. Like that at Dindigul the shrine was desecrated by the Mohammedans, ​who killed a cow in the adytum. The outrage was committed when the Nabobs of Arcot ruled the district. Close to the temple is a tank. Tradition declares that there is a subterranean way from the tank leading out of the fort into the country and passing beneath the foundations of the walls and bed of the moat. Connected with this passage there is a jewel chamber. The entrance to the tunnel is submerged, and when I looked for trace of doorway I could see none. Once the water sank unusually low, I was told by a resident, and the entrance was uncovered. Tempted by the hope of finding treasure, some one ventured to explore the passage. He did not get very far. The presence of snakes drove him back, and before he could summon up sufficient courage to repeat the attempt the water rose again and covered up the entrance. Tales of subterranean passages and hidden treasure are related of every fort and temple. The Hindu is a born gambler, and he will spend days in a fruitless search for what usually proves a will-o’-the-wisp. If treasure is found the secret is kept.
The moat at Vellore contained crocodiles. Pliny relates that these reptiles were turned off into the moats for the purpose of preventing desertions among the garrison. Tavernier corroborates the statement, which seems reasonable. The saurian is undoubtedly a very unpleasant creature for a swimmer to encounter. The crocodile, common to moats, tanks, ponds, and rivers of India, is better known as the mugger. It is the scavenger of the fresh-water world, as the jackal is the scavenger on dry land. It eats fish, animals, and human beings. There is a horrible tradition that in the old days, when native princes hunted the mugger, the best bait to draw the reptile from his lair was a black baby. The wailing of the deserted child never failed to bring it out. Many tales are told of men who have ventured within its reach, ​and have swum the moats in defiance of the mugger. They have not always escaped. Some have been wounded ; others have lost their lives. When the crocodile has secured his prey he does not consume it at once, but buries it in the mud as a dog buries a bone.
In some parts of India the mugger is held sacred, and is fed by its devotees like the cobra. The pujah is an act of propitiation. A power of evil is recognised in the personality of the mugger, and its hideous appearance goes a long way to support the belief. The only individual who prefers a request is the barren woman. She seems to think that it can assist her, a strange belief considering that the reptile is her deadly enemy. Many women going to the river or the tank to draw water have been seized and carried off. Lying flat and motionless upon the river bank, or floating like a log upon the water, the mugger escapes the notice of his victim. She stoops to fill her pot. The grey log becomes animated with hideous life. There is a sudden silent rush. The enormous jaws close with a snap upon the tender flesh of a limb, and before she can utter a shriek for assistance she is drawn under water and held there until her struggles cease. Then she is hidden away in the reptile's larder. Her companions have not noticed the tragedy, so quietly has the undertaker, as Kipling aptly calls him, gone to work. Presently she is missed and a search is made. No sign is visible to give a hint of her awful fate. Her water-pot lies at the bottom of the river out of sight, and she is never seen again. Should vengeance in the shape of a sportsman ever overtake the mugger and an unerring bullet lay him low, the secret of the girl's disappearance is revealed. Her bangles and anklets with those of other victims are found in the stomach. A ball or two of black hair that once shone in soft glossy locks may also be discovered with the jewellery.
​A party of the English residents of Trichinopoly made an excursion to the Cauvery while I was there. A boat was procured and some of them went for a row on the river. As they glided along a lady trailed her hand in the water. Suddenly a log-like object came silently to the surface scarcely a foot from the tempting white fingers. With a startled exclamation one of the rowers bade her take her hand out of the water. The mugger disappeared, sinking below the surface as suddenly as he had come up, and was not seen again. The danger was over and the matter was treated lightly, but there was a disagreeable possibility about the incident which might easily have turned it into a tragedy.
A legend relating to the miraculous origin of the mugger may account for the veneration in which the reptile is held. An ascetic of superlative sanctity took a vow that he would travel throughout the entire length of Hindustan without making his toilet. When he reached the end of his journey he stepped into one of the sacred tanks of the north and shook himself. His travelling companions that had made the journey as passengers upon his person fell into the water. So imbued with virtue were they from having lived so long with their patron that they did not drown. They grew and increased in size and numbers until the tanks and rivers were stocked with muggers.
Vellore was taken by the English (1761) during the war with Chunda Sahib and the French. From that time it was an important post between the Coromandel Coast and Mysore. In 1806 it was the scene of a serious mutiny among the sepoys. For half a century the Europeans had been busy evolving a serviceable native force out of the raw material. Their efforts were attended with marked success, and the sepoy proved an efficient fighting man. In the desire to make him a perfect soldier ​the military authorities lost sight of the important fact that first and foremost he was a Hindu full of conservatism. The traditions of his caste and his religion were nearer to his heart than even life itself. He accepted the uniform without objection, although it was different from the dress of his ancestors. When it came to depriving him of his caste marks and interfering with his turban, wherein all his dignity and self-respect lay, he rebelled. Instead of the turban he was ordered to wear a head. covering which resembled that of a low-caste person. The belief was general throughout the ranks that this was only the first step towards forcing Christianity upon him. Colonel James Brunton, an experienced old officer of the Company, warned the Commander-in-Chief that it was unwise. His caution was unheeded; the first batch of protesting sepoys were punished and the order was rigidly executed.
One hot morning in July 1806 just before dawn the smouldering sparks of discontent broke out into open rebellion. The sepoys shot their officers and a considerable number of European soldiers as they lay asleep in barracks, and took possession of the fort. Within the walls was a palace where the sons of Tippu were in residence under the charge of a military political officer. The mutineers declared for the state-prisoners, and called upon the eldest Prince to come out and join them, a step, fortunately for himself, he did not take. The English flag was pulled down from the fort flagstaff, and the Mysore flag, said to have been handed out from one of the palace windows, was hoisted.
A party of the 69th European Regiment, stationed at Vellore, made a gallant attempt to dislodge the rebels. They succeeded in retaking the gateway and three of the entrances under a heavy fire. The raising of the drawbridge was thus prevented, an important matter, as it ​would have delayed the relief of the fort. The fourth and innermost gate was in the hands of the enemy, who kept up so fierce a fire that it was impossible to take it without guns. The 69th also succeeded in reaching the flagstaff, and a soldier attempted to haul down the objectionable flag. He was shot in the attempt. His death did not deter others from the hazardous task. The flag was lowered by two men, who volunteered, amid a shower of bullets.
Meanwhile a message had been promptly sent to Arcot asking for assistance. Colonel Floyd's old corps, the 19th Dragoons, received the news just as they were about to go on parade. The men, who boasted that they were 'proof against sun and arrack' and were the 'Terrors of the East,' started then and there with Colonel Gillespie (afterwards Sir R. R. Gillespie) at the head of the force. On arrival at Vellore they found that they would have to wait until the galloper guns arrived before they could burst in the inner gate. While they waited Gillespie at his own request was drawn up by a rope on to the gateway, where he encouraged the men who held the position.
When the guns arrived the barred gate was blown in under the direction of Lieutenant Blakiston, who gives a full account of the rebellion in his 'Memoirs,' and the fort was retaken. Colonel Fancourt, who commanded the garrison, was murdered with twelve officers. A hundred men of the 69th also were killed and nearly as many more were wounded. When the mutiny first broke out, Colonel Fancourt ran out of his house, which was near the mainguard, to ascertain the cause of the firing. He was shot down close to his own door. Mrs. Fancourt had a narrow escape. With the help of her servants she hid in a fowlhouse, where she lay half dead with terror under a heap of fuel until the Dragoons arrived. Another ​Englishwoman was saved from peril by a sepoy whose wife was her ayah. He took her to his barracks, disguised in a long military cloak, and guarded her until the danger was over. If help had not been so ready at hand, and the 19th so quick in responding to the call, the death roll would have been far greater, and would have included the English women. Fortunately the sepoys were too fully employed in holding the fort to find time to sack and burn the houses in the cantonment.
It was thought best to remove the Mysore princes to Calcutta. Probably the rebellion had their full sympathy. The claws of the young tigers were growing and their father's kingdom was close at hand. They had a large number of retainers, many of whom attended the seditious meetings of the sepoys. It was but natural that hope should spring up in the heart of Futteh Haider, the eldest of the four. Some years later one of these princes, a pensioner in England, was a large holder of stock in the East India Company, the Company that had defeated his father.
The country round Vellore is rich in fields of grain. The hills break the monotony of the plain and are picturesque in their rocky outline, but they shut out the air. On the top of Koilasghur, sometimes called Kailasa, there is a bungalow. The site is suggestive of airy breezes and a temporary escape from the fiery heat. Appearances are not to be trusted, however. The spot has no water supply and the elevation is not above fever height. In spite of these drawbacks the bungalow has had occupants at various times, who have braved the dilemmas attendant on a difficult transport, and reconciled themselves to the irregular visits of the milkman and the dhoby.
Buried in an old number of the Bangalore parish magazine is the following story from the pen of the editor, ​the Rev. H. A. Williams, chaplain. Whether it relates to the house on Koilasghur he does not say.
‘About 5 P.M. one afternoon twelve years ago the general of a certain division galloped up to my house and told me that a very sad event had happened in the station. The wife of the judge had fallen down dead. On making further inquiries, I was informed that one of the court peons had just come in with the news and was unshaken in his statement.
‘To understand the matter aright, my readers must know that the judge had built a house for himself on the summit of a high hill, which rose more than a thousand feet above the station. It was reached by a very circuitous and rough road engineered by the judge himself.
‘On asking the general if it would not be well to ride up to the house and verify the fact on the spot, he said he feared it was only too true; and as it was getting late and the next day happened to be Sunday, he thought I had better make immediate arrangements for the funeral. He also considered that it would be best to have the burial in the evening of Sunday in place of the usual service, the cemetery being two miles distant.
‘Regarding the expression of his wish as an order, I rode off to the town as soon as possible. On arriving at the house of the church clerk, who was also the local undertaker, I told him the sad news and we proceeded to business. First I asked him whether he could make a coffin and have everything ready in time. He said he had on hand a large first-class coffin which was made for a man. As the poor deceased lady was on a somewhat large scale perhaps it would suit. I was shown the grim article and agreed with him that he could not do better. I told him to send it up without delay, as it was heavy and the hill on the side facing the town was precipitous, it was ten miles round by the easier road.
​‘I then rode back and comforted my mind that I had done my duty zealously and expeditiously. Our community was a small one, and in spite of some mutual failings we had been a very united and pleasant little society. Many were the parties and afternoons we had shared together, and as I sat down to my solitary meal I felt regret for the loss of the lady. It was a sad duty that I had just performed, and I had done my best to discharge it.
‘The evening passed and night came. I was sleeping with an easy conscience, when a loud knocking outside woke me up. I hastened to the door and there stood another court peon with a note from the doctor stating briefly: “False alarm. Mrs. So-and-so is doing well and is eating her supper.”
‘Oh! agony; oh! horror, to think of that huge coffin carried up to the front door in the morning just as she was sitting down to breakfast !
‘It was then past midnight. The town where the undertaker lived was three miles off, and there was about the same distance again to the foot of the hill, across a dreadful rough country intersected by deep nullahs and sprinkled plentifully with rocks. Was it possible I could reach the base of the hill and stop the coolies with their horrible burden before it was too late? The lady would surely have a fit in reality if she saw them. Thinking it was hopeless to get across the country and to catch the coolies, I sent a runner down to the clerk with a letter saying that Mrs. Judge was not dead, and that he must get back the coffin at once.
‘And now it is time to follow it. Obedient to my orders the clerk had despatched the coffin with extra coolies for the hill journey. They were ordered to deliver it as expeditiously as possible. They toiled along for about four miles and then began to ascend the hill. ​Finding their burden heavy and the path rocky, they sat down when they were half way up and waited for the breaking of the day.
‘I could never follow events exactly after that point, and I never dared to question the judge. One thing was certain that the coffin did not go up to the house. I believe that one of the coolies went up and told the judge that there was a large box waiting for him on the hill-side. Being an active man he went down to see what it was like.
'Acting on the principle that the least said is the soonest mended, I was quite satisfied to hear that it returned to the clerk; and I paid the coolies.
'The judge never alluded to the subject, but the lady did not forgive me so easily. Some weeks afterwards we met on a public ground. She shook hands with me and exclaimed: “Oh! how shocking! Death is written in your face. It is truly awful; you are perfectly ghastly!”
'I understood what she meant and laughed as I explained that it was not my fault. The general had ordered me to make the arrangement for burying her, and therefore she ought to slay him and not me. Thereat we were good friends again, and I have never engaged since to order another coffin for a lady who had fainted.'
After a residence of some years on the plains we returned to England on furlough. Never had the green marshes and silvery stretches of the Thames seemed so sweet as on the morning when our homeward-bound vessel passed out of the turmoil of the channel into the smooth water of the estuary. A lark singing overhead seemed a messenger sent expressly to greet us. The deep tone of the lowing cattle, so different from the pig-like grunts of the Indian cow, was a direct call from home; ​and grey smoky London was positively beautiful to our homesick eyes.
Down in the depths of East Anglia we found a temporary anchorage among old friends and faces. Their welcome was warm, their comments outspoken to frankness. Said the oldest inhabitant of the village with a note of surprise : 'So you've been living in India all this while, hev' yer ? Well ! you don't look like it, for yer haint turned yaller !'