The Gospel Man

The winter was the season of raids. Young warriors of the outer hill tribes dwelling amid the great mountain systems that flanked British empire in north-east India struck, as part of their annual hunting ritual, at the British commercial establishments and, frequently, the military and police outposts in the plains for looting the guns. They plundered and burnt villages, chopped the heads of males, and carried women and children off into slavery.

In terms of brutality, which characterized warfare in the good old colonial days, the British had proved to be more than a match for the tribesmen. The Government had, for the sake of formal record, advocated restraint, but the actual mode of punishment meted out by the army expeditions was plainly ruthless. The irony was that most of these counter raids were ineffective, and often embarrassing. Ten military expeditions against the Nagas had no more tangible results than burning of villages and destruction of a lot of grain. Baffled by the defiance of these tribes, even the imperial Lord Dalhousie pronounced the game not worth the candle in 1850.

But when some more than ordinarily ferocious raids had desolated whole villages, and filled each little frontier market with horror, some sepoys under a British officer would struggle up into the hills, and after burning the first village they would find, hurry down again, half of them silly with malaria, and the other half maimed from stumbling over an enemy they had never seen.

When, therefore, Mr. Jonathan Stewart, the Political Officer, called an emergent meeting of military and police officers soon after the Howlongs had overrun an outpost and the Lushais had murdered a British planter and carried away his daughter, few suspected that the agenda of the meeting would not be yet another attempt to find out how the disciplined white soldiers in scarlet uniforms, well-drilled and trained, superior in brains and fire-power, had failed to subdue the witless savages.

But it so happened that Lord Mayo, the new Governor General, had, precisely at this time, vowed not to hear of another punitive expedition. He thought that entering into a career of indefinite conquest towards Tibet and China was vain and profitless, and advocated a policy of conciliation towards the frontier tribes. This sent shock waves to the far corners of the empire, and many die-hard colonial officers were sad and apprehensive. "It means, in short, cozening when we cannot compel," opined the Calcutta Observer. For most of them, conciliation in the colonies was only the Latin equivalent of rum and rupees. In the case of Lushais, it eventually involved gifts of green pyjamas.

"Anybody has a clue to what the Government of India really want?" asked Mr. Stewart, cleverly disavowing his role in the formulation of the new policy dictated from Calcutta, or perhaps London. The caution was necessary in the face of the derisive looks of the military officers, who had been peeved with the decision, fixed at their civilian counterparts.

"It is obvious, Sir. They want us to retire to the barracks, so that the missionaries can take over", said Major Graham, a veteran of many punitive expeditions. He added, after a pause, "Though it is to be regretted that the government have been somewhat hasty in bringing about this exceptional change without adequate consultations with officers in the field who ought to know better".

"It is a missionary ploy, Sir. The idea of an empire expanding peacefully is a bit potty, to say the least. But as a soldier paid by the Governor General, I would obey any commands, including serving as a lackey to our Presbyterian minister here," exclaimed Captain Gray. The remark instantly drew at least one godly man into witticism.