Note 137 — Chapter XXIV · MILITARY OPERATIONS IN FEBRUARY.

‘I have not as yet said one word of the two other camels which were appointed to carry my tent. Under the eaves of that tent had gathered a strange population—they came as sparrows come to a house, without the knowledge or consent of the owner; but the analogy fails in other respects except noise, because the natives require to be paid. There are two men who belong to the tent-post, as in England certain gentlemen belong to horses; then there is a man to carry water, who belongs to a large skin to contain that liquid; next there is a cleaner or sweeper; then there is a khitmutgar or servant, and there is his and my master, one Simon, “an assizes man” he says himself, but he only means that he is a follower of St Francisco d’Assisi; and then follow camel-keepers, and horse-keepers, and grass-cutters; so that I feel very much as Sancho did in his government of Barataria. On the morning of the 27th, soon after midnight, commenced a tumult in camp, the like of which I never heard before; first began a loud tapping of all the tent-pegs, as if an army of gigantic woodpeckers were attacking us. This was caused by the kélassies, or tent-men, loosening the tent-pegs, so that they might be drawn easily from the ground when the word to march was given. Then followed a most hideous grumbling, growling, roaring noise, as if many thousands of aldermen were choking all at once, only that it was kept up for hours; that was caused by the camels objecting to the placement of the smallest article on their backs, and continuing their opposition till they stalked off with their loads. Then came the trumpeting of elephants, the squeaking of bullock cart-wheels, the hum and buzz of thousands of voices, and at last the first bugle-call, which announced that the time for turning out had arrived. Daylight was still striving with the moonlight for mastery, and casting a sort of neutral tint over the camping-ground, on which blazed the flames of many watch-fires, when the heads of our columns began to cross the bridge of boats at Cawnpore. There was but a waste of baked earth where, at sunset, had been a camp—only a few tents belonging to the commander-in-chief and the head-quarters’ staff, were left behind; and for hours the bridge echoed to the tramp of men and horse, the rumble of artillery, and the tread of innumerable elephants, and camels, and oxen. The Ganges is at this season at its lowest, and the bridges are not, I should think, more than 300 yards long; one is used for the exit, the other for the entrance of Cawnpore. They lead to a level sandy plain, overflowed by the Ganges for several hundred yards in the rainy season, on which there were now moving, as far as the eye could reach, the strings of baggage animals and the commissariat carts of the army, with their fantastic followers.’