Camps, Quarters, and Casual Places by Archibald Forbes

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My reminiscences of Spey and Speyside are drawing to an end, and I now
with natural diffidence approach a great theme. Every Speyside man will
recognise from this exordium that I am about to treat of "Geordie." It is
quite understood throughout lower Speyside that it is the moral support
which Geordie accords to Craigellachie Bridge, in the immediate vicinity
of which he lives, that chiefly maintains that structure; and that if he
were to withdraw that support, its towers and roadway would incontinently
collapse into the depths of the sullen pool spanned by the graceful
erection. The best of men are not universally popular, and it must be said
that there are those who cast on Geordie the aspersion of being "some
thrawn," for which the equivalent in south-country language is perhaps "a
trifle cross-grained." These, however, are envious people, who are jealous
of Geordie's habitual association with lords and dukes, and who resent the
trivial stiffness which is no doubt apparent in his manner to ordinary
people for the first few days after the illustrious persons referred to
have reluctantly permitted him to withdraw from them the light of his
countenance. For my own part I have found Geordie, all things considered,
to be wonderfully affable. That his tone is patronising I do not deny; but
then there is surely a joy in being patronised by the factotum of a duke.

I have never been quite sure, nor have I ever dared to ask Geordie,
whether he considers the Duke to be his patron, or whether he regards
himself as the patron of that eminent nobleman. From the "aucht-and-forty
daugh" of Strathbogie to the Catholic Braes of Glenlivat where fifty years
ago the "sma' stills" reeked in every moorland hollow, across to beautiful
Kinrara and down Spey to the fertile Braes of Enzie, his Grace is the
benevolent despot of a thriving tenantry who have good cause to regard him
with esteem and gratitude. The Duke is a masterful man, whom no factor
need attempt to lead by the nose; but on the margin of Spey, from the
blush-red crags of Cairntie down to the head of tide water, he owns his
centurion in Geordie, who taught him to throw his first line when already
he was a minister of the Crown, and who, as regards aught appertaining to
salmon fishing, saith unto his Grace, Do this and he doeth it.

Geordie is a loyal subject, and when a few years ago he had the
opportunity of seeing Her Majesty during her momentary halt at Elgin
station, he paid her the compliment of describing her as a "sonsie wife."
But the heart-loyalty of the honest fellow goes out in all its tender yet
imperious fulness towards the Castle family, to most of the members of
which, of both sexes, he has taught the science and practice of killing
salmon. Hint the faintest shadow of disparagement of any member of that
noble and worthy house, and you make a life enemy of Geordie. On no other
subject is he particularly touchy, save one--the gameness and vigour of
the salmon of Spey. Make light of the fighting virtues of Spey fish--exalt
above them the horn of the salmon of Tay, Ness, or Tweed--and Geordie
loses his temper on the instant and overwhelms you with the strongest
language. There is a tradition that among Geordie's remote forbears was
one of Cromwell's Ironsides who on the march from Aberdeen to Inverness
fell in love with a Speyside lass of the period, and who, abandoning his
Ironside appellation of "Hew-Agag-in-Pieces," adopted the surname which
Geordie now bears. This strain of ancestry may account for Geordie's
smooth yet peremptory skill as a disciplinarian. It devolves upon him
during the rod-fishing season to assign to each person of the fishing
contingent his or her particular stretch of water, and to tell off to each
as guide one of his assistant attendants.

It is a great treat to find Geordie in a garrulous humour and to listen to
one of his salmon-fishing stories, told always in the broadest of
north-country Doric. His sense of humour is singularly keen,
notwithstanding that he is a Scot; and it is not in his nature to minimise
his own share in the honour and glory of the incident he may relate. One
of Geordie's stories is vividly in my recollection, and may appropriately
conclude my reminiscences of Speyside and its folk. There was a stoup of
"Benrinnes" on the mantelpiece and a free-drawing pipe in Geordie's mouth.
His subject was the one on which he can be most eloquent--an incident of
the salmon-fishing season, on which the worthy man delivered himself as
follows:--

"Twa or three seasons back I was attendin' Leddy Carline whan she was
fushin' that gran' pool at the brig o' Fochabers. She's a fine fusher,
Leddy Carline: faith, she may weel be, for I taucht her mysel'. She hookit
a saumon aboot the midst o' the pool, an' for a while it gied gran' sport;
loupin' and tumblin', an' dartin' up the watter an' doon the watter at sic
a speed as keepit her leddyship muvin' gey fast tae keep abriesht o't.
Weel, this kin' o' wark, an' a ticht line, began for tae tak' the spunk
oot o' the saumon, an' I was thinkin' it was a quieston o' a few meenits
whan I wad be in him wi' the gaff; but my birkie, near han' spent though
he was, had a canny bit dodge up the sleeve o' him. He made a bit whamlin'
run, an' deil tak' me gin he didna jam himself intil a neuk atween twa
rocks, an' there the dour beggar bade an' sulkit. Weel, her leddyship
keepit aye a steady drag on him, an' she gied him the butt wi' power; but
she cudna get the beast tae budge--no, nae sae muckle as the breadth o' my
thoomb-nail. Deil a word said Leddy Carline tae me for a gey while, as she
vrought an' vrought tae gar the saumon quit his neuk. But she cam nae
speed wi' him; an' at last she says, says she, 'Geordie, I can make
nothing of him: what in the world is to be done?' 'Gie him a shairp upward
yark, my leddy,' says I; 'there canna be muckle strength o' resistance
left in him by this time!' Weel, she did as I tellt her--I will say this
for Leddy Carline, that she's aye biddable. But, rugg her hardest, the
fush stuck i' the neuk as gin he waur a bit o' the solid rock, an' her
leddyship was becomin' gey an' exhaustit. 'Take the rod yourself,
Geordie,' says she, 'and try what you can do; I freely own the fish is too
many for me.' Weel, I gruppit the rod, an' I gied a shairp, steady, upward
drag; an' up the brute cam, clean spent. He hadna been sulkin' aifter aa';
he had been fairly wedged atween the twa rocks, for whan I landit him, lo
an' behold! he was bleedin' like a pig, an' there was a muckle gash i' the
side o' him, that the rock had torn whan I draggit him by main force up
an' oot. The taikle was stoot, ye'll obsairve, or else he be tae hae
broken me; but tak' my word for't, Geordie is no the man for tae lippen
tae feckless taikle.

"Weel, I hear maist things; an' I was tellt that same nicht hoo at the
denner-table Leddy Carline relatit the haill adventur', an' owned, fat was
true aneuch, that the fush had fairly bestit her. Weel, amo' the veesitors
at the Castle was the Dowager Leddy Breadanham; an' it seemed that whan
Leddy Carline was through wi' her narrateeve, the dowager be tae gie a
kin' o' a scornfu' sniff an' cock her neb i' the air; an' she said, wha
but she, that she didna hae muckle opingin o' Leddy Carline as a saumon
fisher, an' that she hersel' didna believe there was a fush in the run o'
Spey that she cudna get the maistery ower. That was a gey big word, min'
ye; it's langidge I wadna venture for tae make use o' mysel', forbye a
south-countra dowager.

"Weel, I didna say muckle; but, my faith, like the sailor's paurot, I
thoucht a deevil o' a lot. The honour o' Spey was in my hauns, an' it
behuvit me for tae hummle the pride o' her dowager leddyship. The morn's
mornin' cam, an' by that time I had decided on my plan o' operautions. By
guid luck I fand the dowager takin' her stroll afore brakfast i' the
floor-gairden. I ups till her, maks my boo, an' says I, unco canny an'
respectfu', 'My leddy, ye'll likely be for the watter the day?' She said
she was, so says I, 'Weel, my leddy, I'll be prood for tae gae wi' ye
mysel', an' I'll no fail tae reserve for ye as guid water as there is in
the run o' Spey!' She was quite agreeable, an' so we sattlit it.

"The Duke himsel' was oot on the lawn whan I was despatchin' the ither
fushin' folk, ilk ane wi' his or her fisherman kerryin' the rod.
'Geordie,' said his Grace, 'with whom will you be going yourself?' 'Wi'
the Dowager Leddy Breadanham, yer Grace!' says I. 'And where do you think
of taking her ladyship, Geordie?' speers he. 'N'odd, yer Grace,' says I,
'I am sattlin in my min' for tae tak' the leddy tae the "Brig o'
Fochabers" pool;' an' wi' that I gied a kin' o' a respectfu' half-wink.
The Duke was no' the kin' o' man for tae wink back, for though he's aye
grawcious, he's aye dignifeed; but there was a bit flichter o' humour
roun' his mou' whan he said, says he, 'I think that will do very well,
Geordie!'

"Praesently me an' her leddyship startit for the 'Brig o' Fochabers' pool.
She cud be vera affauble whan she likit, I'll say that muckle for the
dowager; an' me an' her newsed quite couthie-like as we traivellt. I
saftened tae her some, I frankly own; but than my hert hardent again whan
I thoucht o' the duty I owed tae Spey an' tae Leddy Carline. Of coorse
there was a chance that my scheme wad miscairry; but there's no a man on
Spey frae Tulchan tae the Tug Net that kens the natur' o' saumon better
nor mysel'. They're like sheep--fat ane daes, the tithers will dae; an'
gin the dowager hookit a fush, I hadna muckle doobt fat that fush wad dae.
The dowager didna keep me vera lang in suspense. I had only chyngt her fly
ance, an' she had maist fushed doon the pool a secont time, whan in the
ripple o' watter at the head o' the draw abune the rapid a fush took her
'Riach' wi' a greedy sook, an' the line was rinnin' oot as gin there had
been a racehorse at the far end o't, the saumon careerin' up the pool like
a flash in the clear watter. The dowager was as fu' o' life as was the
fush. Odd, but she kent brawly hoo tae deal wi' her saumon--that I will
say for her! There was nae need for me tae bide closs by the side o' a
leddy that had boastit there was na a fush in Spey she cudna maister, sae
I clamb up the bank, sat doun on ma doup on a bit hillock, an' took the
leeberty o' lichtin' ma pipe. Losh! but that dowager spanged up an' doun
the waterside among the stanes aifter that game an' lively fush; an'
troth, but she was as souple wi' her airms as wi' her legs; for, rinnin'
an' loupin' an' spangin' as she was, she aye managed for tae keep her line
ticht. It was a dooms het day, an' there wasna a ruffle o' breeze; sae nae
doobt the fush was takin' as muckle oot o' her as she was takin' oot o'
the fush. In aboot ten meenits there happent juist fat I had expectit. The
fush made a sidelins shoot, an' dairted intil the vera crevice occupeed by
Leddy Carline's fush the day afore. 'Noo for the fun!' thinks I, as I sat
still an' smokit calmly. She was certently a perseverin' wummun, that
dowager--there was nae device she didna try wi' that saumon tae force him
oot o' the cleft. Aifter aboot ten meenits mair o' this wark, she shot at
me ower her shouther the obsairve, 'Isn't it an obstinate wretch?' 'Aye,'
says I pawkily, 'he's gey dour; but he's only a Spey fush, an' of coorse
ye'll maister him afore ye've dune wi' him!' I'm thinkin' she unnerstude
the insinivation, for she uttert deil anither word, but yokit tee again
fell spitefu' tae rug an' yark at the sulkin' fush. At last, tae mak a
lang story short, she was fairly dune. 'Geordie,' says she waikly, 'the
beast has quite worn me out! I'm fit to melt--there is no strength left in
me; here, come and take the rod!' Weel, I deleeberately raise, poocht ma
pipe, an' gaed doun aside her. 'My leddy,' says I, quite solemn, an'
luikin' her straucht i' the face--haudin' her wi' my ee, like--'I hae been
tellt fat yer leddyship said yestreen, that there wasna a saumon in Spey
ye cudna maister. Noo, I speer this at yer leddyship--respectfu' but
direck; div ye admit yersel clean bestit--fairly lickit wi' that fush,
Spey fush though it be? Answer me that, my leddy!' 'I do own myself
beaten,' says she, 'and I retract my words.' 'Say nae mair, yer
leddyship!' says I--for I'm no a cruel man--'say nae mair, but maybe ye'll
hae the justice for tae say a word tae the same effeck in the Castle whaur
ye spak yestreen?' 'I promise you I will,' said the dowager--'here, take
the rod!' Weel, it was no sae muckle a fush as was Leddy Carline's. I had
it oot in a few meenits, an' by that time the dowager was sae far revived
that she was able to bring it in aboot tae the gaff; an' sae, in the
hinner end, she in a sense maistert the fush aifter aa'. But I'm thinkin'
she will be gey cautious in the futur' aboot belittlin' the smeddum o'
Spey saumon!"

THE CAWNPORE OF TO-DAY

The traveller up the country from Calcutta does not speedily reach places
the names of which vividly recall the episodes of the great Mutiny. It is
a chance if, as the train passes Dinapore, he remembers the defection of
the Sepoy brigade stationed there which Koer Singh seduced from its
allegiance. Arrah may possibly recall a dim memory of Wake's splendid
defence of Boyle's bungalow and of Vincent Eyre's dashingly executed
relief of the indomitable garrison. Benares is a little off the main line--
Benares, on the parade ground of which Neill first put down that
peremptory foot of his, where Olpherts was so quick with those guns of
his, and where Jim Ellicott did his grim work with noose and cross-beam
until long after the going down of the summer sun. But when the
traveller's eye first rests on the gray ramparts of Akbar's hoary fortress
in the angle where the Ganges and the Jumna meet and blend one with
another, the reality of the Mutiny begins to impress itself upon him.
Allahabad was the scene of a terrible tragedy; it was also the point of
departure whence Havelock set forward on Cawnpore with his column, not
indeed of rescue, but of retribution. The journey from Allahabad to
Cawnpore, although perchance performed in the night, is not one to be
slept through by any student of the story of the great rebellion. The
Indian moon pours her flood of light on the little knoll hard by
Futtehpore, where Havelock stood when Jwala Pershad's first round shot
came lobbing, through his staff in among the camp kettles of the 64th.
That village beyond the mango tope is Futtehpore itself, whence the rebel
sowars swept headlong down the trunk road till Maude's guns gave them the
word to halt. The pools are dry now through which, when Hamilton's voice
had rung out the order--"Forward, at the double!" the light company of the
Ross-shire Buffs splashed recklessly past the abandoned Sepoy guns, in
their race with the grenadier company of the 64th that had for its goal
the Pandy barricade outside the village. In that cluster of mud huts--its
name is Aoong--the gallant Rénaud fell with a shattered thigh, as he led
his "Lambs" up to the _épaulement_ which covered its front. One fight a
day is fair allowance anywhere, but those fellows whom Havelock led were
gluttons for fighting. Spanning that deep rugged nullah there, down which
the Pandoo flows turbulently in the rainy season, is the bridge across
which in the afternoon of the morning of Aoong, Stephenson with his
Fusiliers dashed into the Sepoy battery and bayoneted the gunners before
they could make up their minds to run away. And it was in the gray morning
following the day of that double battle (the 15th of July) that the
General, having heard for the first time that there were still alive in
Cawnpore a number of women and children who had escaped the massacre of
the boats, told his men what he knew. "With God's help," shouted Havelock,
with a break in his voice that was like a sob, as he stood with his hat
off and his hand on his sword--"with God's help, men, we will save them,
or every man die in the attempt!" One answer came back in a great cheer;
but a sadder answer to the aspiration, a bitter truth that made that
aspiration futile and hopeless, had lain ever since the evening of the day
before in the Beebeegur, and almost as the chief was speaking the Well was
receiving its dead inmates. Where the train begins to slacken its pace on
approaching the station, it is passing over the field of the first--the
creditable--battle of Cawnpore. Fresh from the butchery Nana Sahib
(Dhoondoo Punth) himself had come out to aid in the last stand against the
avengers. Yonder is the mango tope which formed the screen for Hamilton's
turning movement. It needs little imagination to recall the scene. Close
by, at the cross-roads, stands the Sepoy battery, and those horsemen still
nearer are reconnoitring sowars. Beyond the road the Highlanders are
deploying on the plain as they clear the sheltering flank of the mango
trees, amidst a grim silence broken only by the crash of the bursting
shells and the cries of the bullock-drivers as the guns rattle on to open
fire from the reverse flank. The flush rises in Hamilton's face and the
eyes of him begin to sparkle, as he shouts "Ross-shire Buffs, wheel into
line!" and then "Forward!" Quick as lightning the trails of the Sepoy guns
are swung round and shot and shell come crashing through the ranks, while
the rebel infantry, with a swiftness which speaks well for their British
drill, show a front against this inroad on their flank. In silent grim
imperturbability the Highland line stalks steadily on with the long
springy step to be learned only on the heather. Now they are within eighty
yards of the muzzles of the guns, and they can see the colour of the
mustaches of the men plying and supporting them. Then Hamilton, with his
sword in the air and his face all ablaze with the fighting blood in him,
turns round in the saddle, shouts "Charge!" and bids the pipers to strike
up. Wild and shrill bursts over that Indian plain the rude notes of the
Northern music. But louder yet, drowning them and the roll of the
artillery, rings out that Highland war-cry that has so often presaged
victory to British arms. The Ross-shire men are in and over the guns ere
the gunners have time to drop their lint-stocks and ramming-rods; they
fall with bayonets at the charge upon the supporting infantry, and the
supporting infantry go down where they huddle together, lacking the
opportunity to break and run away in time. But the battle rages all day,
and the white soldiers, as they fight their way slowly forward, hear the
bursts of military music that greet the Nana as he moves from place to
place, _not_ in the immediate front. Barrow and his handful of cavalry
volunteers crash into the thick of them with the informal order to his
men, "Give point, lads; damn cuts and guards." Young Havelock, mounted by
the side of the gallant and ill-fated Stirling trudging forward on foot,
brings the 64th on at the double against the great 24-pounder on the
Cawnpore road that is vomiting grape at point-blank range. The night falls
and the battle ceases, but among the wearied fighting men there is none of
the elation of victory; for through the ranks, after the going down of the
sun, had throbbed the bruit, originating no one knew where, that the women
and children in Cawnpore had been butchered on the afternoon of the day
before, while Stephenson and his Fusiliers were carrying the bridge of the
Pandoo Nuddee.

The railway station of Cawnpore is distant more than a mile from the
cantonment. Close to the road and not far from the station, the explorer
easily finds the massive pile of the "Savada House," now allotted as
residences for railway officials. English children play now in the
corridors once thronged by the minions of the Nana, for here were his
headquarters during part of the siege. Its verandas all day long were full
of ministers, diviners, courtiers, and creatures. Here strolled the
supple, panther-like Azimoolah, the self-asserted favourite of home
society in the pre-Mutiny days. Teeka Sing, the Nana's war minister, had
his "bureau" in a tent under the peepul tree there. In that other clump of
trees, where an ayah is tickling a white baby into laughter, was the
pavilion of the Nana himself, who inherited the Mahratta preference for
canvas over bricks and mortar. And here, while the crackle of the musketry
fire and the din of the big guns came softened on the ear by distance, sat
the adopted son of the Peishwa while Jwala Pershad came for orders about
the cavalry, and Bala Rao, his brother, explained his devices for
harassing the sahibs, and Tantia Topee, Hoolass Sing, Azimoolah, and the
Nana himself devised the scheme of the treachery. But the Savada House has
even a more lurid interest than this. Hither the women and children whom
an unkind fate had spared from dying with the men were brought back from
the Ghaut of Slaughter. You may see the two rooms into which 125
unfortunates were huddled after that march from before the presence of one
death into the presence of another. As they plodded past the intrenchment
so long held, and across the plain to the Nana's pavilion, "I saw," says a
spectator, "that many of the ladies were wounded. Their clothes had blood
upon them. Two were badly hurt and had their heads bound up with
handkerchiefs; some were wet, covered with mud and blood, and some had
their dresses torn; but all had clothes. I saw one or two children without
clothes. There were no men in the party, but only some boys of twelve or
thirteen. Some of the ladies were barefoot." Hither, too, were sent later
the women of that detachment of the garrison which had got off from the
ghaut in the boat defended by Vibart, Ashe, Delafosse, Bolton, Moore, and
Thomson, and which had been captured at Nuzzufghur by Baboo Ram Bux. It
had been for those people a turbulent departure from the Suttee Chowra
Ghaut, but it was a yet more fearful returning. "They were brought back,"
testified a spy; "sixty sahibs, twenty-five memsahibs, and four children.
The Nana ordered the sahibs to be separated from the memsahibs, and shot
by the 1st Bengal Native Infantry.... 'Then,' said one of the memsahibs,
'I will not leave my husband. If he must die I will die with him.' So she
ran and sat down behind her husband, clasping him round the waist.
Directly she said this, the other memsahibs said, 'We also will die with
our husbands,' and they all sat down each by her husband. Then their
husbands said, 'Go back,' and they would not. Whereupon the Nana ordered
his soldiers, and they went in, pulling them forcibly away." ...

The drive from the railway station to the European cantonments is pleasant
and shaded. At a bend in the road there comes into view a broad, flat,
treeless parade ground. This plain lies within a circle of foliage, above
which, on the south-eastern side, rise the balconies and flat tops of a
long range of barracks built in detached blocks, while around the rest of
the circle the trees shade the bungalows of the cantonment. Near the
centre of this level space there is an irregular enclosure defined by a
shallow sunk wall and low quickset hedge, and in the middle of this
enclosure rises the ornate and not wholly satisfactory structure known as
the "Memorial Church." It is built on the site of the old dragoon
hospital, which was the very focus of the agony of the siege. It is
impossible to analyse the mingled emotions of amazement, pride, pity,
wrath, and sorrow which fill the visitor to this shrine of British valour,
endurance, and constancy. The heart swells and the eyes fill as one,
standing here with all the arena of the heroism lying under one's eyes,
recalls the episodes of the glorious, piteous story. The blood stirs when
one remembers the buoyant valour of the gallant Moore, who, "wherever he
passed, left men something more courageous and women something less
unhappy," the reckless audacity of Ashe, the cool daring of Delafosse, the
deadly rifle of Stirling, the heroic devotion of Jervis. And a great lump
grows in the throat when one bethinks him of the beautiful constancy and
fearful sufferings of the women; of British ladies going barefoot and
giving up their stockings as cases for grape-shot; of Mrs. Moore's
journeys across to No. 2 Barrack; of the hapless gentlewomen, "unshod,
unkempt, ragged, and squalid, haggard and emaciated, parched with drought,
and faint with hunger, sitting waiting to hear that they were widows." And
what a place it was which the garrison had to defend! Not a foot of all
the space bomb-proof, an apology for an intrenchment such as "an active
cow might jump over." The imagination has to do much work here, for most
of the landmarks are gone. The outline of the world-famous earthwork is
almost wholly obliterated; only in places is it to be dimly recognised by
brick-discoloured lines, and a low raised line on the smooth _maidan_. The
enclosure now existing has no reference to the outlines of the
intrenchment. That enclosure merely surrounds the graveyard, in the midst
of which stands the "Memorial Church," a structure that cannot be
commended from an architectural point of view. But the space enclosed
around its gaunt red walls is pregnant with painful interest. We come
first on a railed-in memorial tomb, bearing an inscription in raised
letters, on a cross let into the tessellated pavement: "In three graves
within this enclosure lie the remains of Major Edward Vibart, 2nd Bengal
Cavalry, and about seventy officers and soldiers, who, after escaping from
the massacre at Cawnpore on the 27th June 1857, were captured by the
rebels at Sheorapore, and murdered on the 1st July." The inmates of these
graves were originally buried elsewhere, and were removed hither when the
enclosure was formed. In another part of the enclosure is a raised tomb,
the slab of which bears the inscription: "This stone marks a spot which
lay within Wheeler's intrenchment, and covers the remains and is sacred to
the memory of those who were the first to meet their death when
beleaguered by mutineers and rebels in June 1857." Two only lie in this
grave, Mr. Murphy and a lady who died of fever. These two perished on the
first day of the siege and had the exclusive privilege of being decently
interred within the precincts of the intrenchment. After the first day of
the siege there was scant leisure for funeral rites. To find the last
resting-place of the remaining dead of this siege, we must quit the
enclosure and walk across the _maidan_ to a spot among the trees by the
roadside under the shadow of No. 4 Barrack. There was an empty well here
when the siege begun; three weeks after, when the siege ended, this well
contained the bodies of 250 British people. With daylight the battle raged
around that sepulchre, but when the night came the slain of the day were
borne thither with stealthy step and scant attendance. Now the well is
filled up, and above it, inside a small ornamental enclosure formed by
iron railings, there rises a monument which bears the following
inscription: "In a well under this enclosure were laid by the hands of
their fellows in suffering the bodies of men, women, and children, who
died hard by during the heroic defence of Wheeler's intrenchment when
beleaguered by the rebel Nana." Below the inscription is this apposite
quotation from Psalm cxli. 7: "Our bones are scattered at the grave's
mouth, as when one cutteth and cleaveth wood upon the earth. But mine eyes
are unto Thee, O God the Lord." At the corners of the flower-plot are
small crosses bearing individual names. One commemorates Sir George
Parker, the cantonment magistrate; a second, Captain Jenkins; a third,
Lieutenant Saunders and the men of the 84th Regiment; a fourth, Lieutenant
Glanville and the men of the Madras Fusiliers; and here, too, lies
stout-hearted yet tender-hearted John MacKillop of the Civil Service the
hero of another well, that from which the team of buffaloes are now
drawing water to make the mortar for the Memorial Church. Thence was
procured the water for the garrison and it was a target also for the rebel
artillery, so that the appearance of a man with a pitcher by day and by
night the creaking of the tackle, was the signal for a shower of grape.
But John MacKillop, "not being a fighting-man," made himself useful as he
modestly put it, for a week as captain of the Well, till a grape-shot sent
him to that other well thence never to return.

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