Sahib: The British Soldier in India 1750–1914

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Private Tubb Goodward of HM’s 16th Lancers did not even have the luxury of boats in December 1843:

Commenced to move long before daylight to get the tents and baggage packed in good time for fording the river, thinking from the immense quantity of baggage that had to pass over, there would be great confusion … The Infantry who passed over first was at the ford by 6 o’clock where they had to ford, to do which they had to pull off their trousers, the water in parts being full four feet deep, which was anything but pleasant this cold morning. However, they reached the opposite shore in safety. Following close to them was the Artillery … The Cavalry … passed over without any casualties but a few wet legs particularly those who had low horses … On reaching the opposite bank had to wait a full hour for the Artillery, who previous to fording had to take all the ammunition boxes off the wagons to keep them dry and send them over in a boat and reload them, which being done again resumed our march, the road running for about three miles in a deep ravine.

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John Pearman of the 3rd Light Dragons forded the Sutlej in early 1849:

We received the order to undress, take off our boots, draws and trowsers, tie them round our necks and then mount our horses to take the ford, which we did by file or in twos, a row of camels above stream and a row below us. So into the water we went, and cold it was, most of it snow water from the Kashmir mountains.

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These marches were being conducted in wartime, but even a routine change of garrisons in peacetime looked very similar. Albert Hervey warned his readers that:

To a thousand fighting men there are about four to five thousand camp followers, and upwards, the families of officers and men, the servants of the former with their respective families, the bullock-drivers and bandy-men, the coolies, palankeen-bearers and others.

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At the appointed time the General Call to Arms was beaten, tents were struck and breakfasts eaten. About half an hour later the drums beat the Assembly:

and the troops fall in; the column is formed right or left in front; the advance and rear-guards are thrown out, and all move off on the sound of the ‘quick march’ from the orderly bugler; upon which the men generally give a shout and a huzzah, and away they go, leaving their old encampment, and looking forward with anxious expectations to reaching their next stage, and meeting with their families whom they have sent on in advance.

After clearing the old ground, the taps sound ‘unfix bayonets – and – march at ease’, when officers sheath their swords and mount, while the men march as they like, the pivots of sections, however, preserving their distances, and the whole push along as fast as they like, conversing with each other, the Joe Miller of each company telling his yarns, or cracking his jokes, some of the fellows singing, and others laughing. It very often happens that the officers are made subjects of mirth, or of panegyric by the latter, as they are liked or disliked by the men.

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For most of the period soldiers and the armies of which they formed part needed access to hard cash, and travelling military treasuries were a feature of marching armies. Lieutenant Reginald Wilberforce of HM’s 52nd Light Infantry marched on Delhi from Sialkot in May 1857.

The most irksome duty we had was treasure guard; the troops before Delhi had no money, and so we brought them down a considerable amount. This treasure, all in rupees, was carried on camels, and a guard of 100 men with a captain and a subaltern had to march with the camels. Now, a camel is a useful beast of burden, but … his pace is two miles an hour, the most wearisome pace in the world … The treasure guard always started first and got into camp last. Then, all day long, sentries had to be visited, guards inspected, until the happy time came when the relief came and the boxes of rupees were handed over to some one else’s custody.

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Captain Crawford McFall of the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry found himself acting as field treasury officer with the Zhob Valley Field Force in 1890, responsible for half a lakh of rupees, carried in fourteen boxes. Nine boxes contained whole rupees, 5,000 in each box in five bags of 1,000 each. There was one box of small silver totalling 4,500 rupees; two boxes of single pice to the value of 150 rupees each, and two boxes of double pice at 100 rupees each. The money boxes were loaded into oak chests, two to a camel. They had their own escort on the march and were secured by the column’s quarter-guard at night. McFall was glad to be rid of the responsibility when the proper field treasury officer arrived.

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Private Henry Metcalfe of HM’s 32nd Foot spent half his first two years in India on the move. He left Chinsurah for the 500-mile march to Allahabad on 14 January 1850, and

remained in the fortress for the hot season, which I thought very hot indeed. Marched from there on the following October to a station in the Punjab called Jullundur, and arrived there on the 14th March 1851. That march was about 700 miles.

Remained in Jullundur until the following November, and marched to the North-West Frontier (where I saw the first shot fired in anger). Arrived at Peshawur on the 8th January 1852.

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The regimental bheesties – water-carriers, like Kipling’s Gunga Din – tried to ensure that there was always water to drink on the line of march. Gunga Din was drawn from life, because, as William Forbes-Mitchell observed, bheesties and doolie-bearers ‘were the only camp followers who did not desert us when we crossed into Oudh … The bheesties … have been noted for fidelity and bravery in every Indian campaign.’

(#litres_trial_promo) Many old hands, however, maintained that a man could damage his health by drinking too much water, and Private Robert Waterfield, marching from Umballa to Ferozepore in May 1848 in sultry weather, observed that:

The remaining bheesties kept well up with the column, with a good supply of water. The water is warm and has a sickly taste with it. A great many men bring sickness on themselves by overloading the stomach with water on the line of march. I always refrain from smoking my pipe as much as I possibly can, and generally carry a small pebble in my mouth which keeps it moist. I refrain from talking as much as I can, and find myself less fatigued when I arrived in camp than most men. I always draw my two drams of ration rum which I find does one good.

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Private Richards marched from Meerut to the hill station of Chakrata, about 160 miles away, in March 1903. First the battalion struck camp, and its large tents were sent on ahead to Chakrata, with smaller ‘mountain tents’ taking their place for the march. Large bags called sleetahs held the kit and blankets of four men and were carried on pack animals, bullocks in this instance:

The dairy, bakery, cooks and camp followers moved off each evening twelve hours in advance of the Battalion, so that rations could be drawn and breakfast ready by the time the Battalion arrived. There was no breakfast before we started our march, which on some days was stiffer than on others, but any man who chose to could give his name to the Colour-Sergeant who would put it down on the list of men who would daily be supplied with a good meat-sandwich and a pint of tea at the coffee-halt, for which two annas a day was deducted from their pay … We always knew we were approaching the coffee-halt, where we had an hour’s rest, by the drums striking up the tune of ‘Polly put the kettle on and we’ll all have tea’.

We started each day’s march at dawn and the only parade we did after arriving at camp was rifle-and-foot inspection. Unless a man was on guard he had the rest of the day to spend how he liked … Most of the men passed the day away by playing House, which was the most popular of the games played … The majority of the men were inveterate gamblers and those who were stony broke would collect in schools of five and play Kitty-nap ‘for noses’ as it was called. When a player called Nap and he made it, he would bunch his five cards together and give each of the others twelve smacks on the nose with them; if he failed to make his contract he received six smacks on the nose from each of the others.

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John Fraser remembered ‘jolly and convivial’ campfire concerts on the line of march in the 1880s, evenings when discipline was almost wholly absent and officers and senior NCOs might oblige with their signature tunes, like ‘the Sergeant-Major with “Robin Tamson’s Smiddy” or Sergeant Foley with “Paddy Heagerty’s Ould Leather Breeches”’.

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Even on the march itself not all soldiers preferred to step it out in silence. Major Bayley of HM’s 52nd remembered the march from Allahabad to Umballa in 1853–54:

As soon as the sun was up, and the pipes finished, the men usually began to sing, by companies generally, one man taking the solo and the rest the chorus; but this was not always possible, unless there was a side wind, the dust rose in thick clouds and hung over the column. Of course it was worse in the rear than in the front; so, in order that everyone should have a fair chance, the order of march was changed daily, the company marching in rear today, going to the front tomorrow.

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Ensign Reginald Wilberforce, also of the 52nd, this time on the move from Sialcot to Delhi, remembered that:

Half way along the line of march we always halted for half an hour; the men had rum served out to them, and the officers used to have coffee as well as other things [this was generally known as ‘coffee-stop’]. One of the favourite songs was of a most revolutionary character; it had about thirty verses and a long chorus. I forget the song, but I recall that ‘Confound our Officers!’ held a place in the chorus, and used to be lustily shouted. At first the men would not sing this song – they thought it would hurt our feelings, but it had such a good tune that nearly every night one of our captains would call for it.

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The level of banter accepted on the march varied from unit to unit. Gunner Bancroft marched from the Bengal Artillery depot at Dum Dum for the Upper Provinces in February 1842. With the column were 400 recruits of the 1st Bengal European Regiment (popularly known as the 1st Yeos) marching to join their unit without their own officers or senior NCOs. Bancroft remembered:

jolly times they were on that blessed march, wiling away the tedium of the marches by whistling, singing, cracking jokes, playing practical tricks, and all sorts of what is commonly called ‘divilment’! There was a very large contingent of Irishmen among the number, and the well-known tendency of the Hibernian to mind everything humorous was very fully developed. There was little or no restraint imposed upon them. If a dispute arose between any two of the number which could not be amicably settled, they turned off the road and had a set to, discovered who was the best man, and manfully resumed their march, after having afforded no small gratification to a crowd of admiring lookers-on and settled their dispute to their own satisfaction. There was no officer in charge of the recruits; usually two mounted non-commissioned officer of the [horse artillery] troop were told off to keep them together if possible, a task as difficult as that of Sisyphus.

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