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arguments on every subject-war in particular, the invincibility of the French troops being the General's favourite topic. The Frenchman bombarded the monk with Austerlitz, Marengo, and Lodi; Waterloo, he said, was a compound of treachery and mistakes, and in fact we were fairly beaten upon all principles of war, ancient and modern-only we would not admit it. That the English mode of fighting was simply “boxèè-boxèè" that civilized nations would not recognise it; and all the French wanted was time to get wind and a few lessons in boxèè. The General (who never appeared twice in the same coat or uniform, and that always covered with a profusion of orders, many resembling gridirons, toasting forks, and undertaker's coffin-plates) one day came on deck in a French attempted Newmarket-cut sporting coat, with enormous bronze buttons, embellished with heads of stags, lions, tigers, horses, &c. Sitting down to dinner the monk quietly remarked :* Ha, General, I have converted you! I am glad to see you in an English sporting coat
buttons and all." “Sacré," said old Dumas, “I only wear this coat occasionally to remind me of the great men of England as you call them, and here they are! That pig's head is Grey—that leopard is Palmerston,” and so on-enumerating the Whig Ministry. But," said the monk, “ you have forgotten one of the greatest men England lays claim to where have you placed Wellington ?
Sacré nom de Dieu," exclaimed Dumas; "no, I have not ! here he is !” exultingly rising up and pointing to a button behind. “ There is the Foutre.'” The monk exclaimed, " Ah, good General, you have only done him justice! You have him where you always had him ; you never liked him in front !”
The shouts of laughter that ensued aroused the General to the mistake he had committed, and he left the cabin swearing in choice French, vowing his determination to button us in front with a Persian army and drive us out of India.
On arrival in Bombay I found there was no ship to sail immediately for Calcutta, and by
the then existing regulations (viz., that no officer could draw his Indian allowances until he had reported himself in his own Presidency) myself and friend (an officer in the 6th Bengal Cavalry, since dead) determined at once to march from Bombay to Mhow, (a distance of four hundred miles) in the month of June. After having made every arrangement, we started and roughed it amazingly, viá Baroach and Baroda. This march gave me an introduction to the Bombay officers. Better men never lived; their hospitality was unbounded, and there was the greatest difficulty in getting away from them. Our side of India call them ducks;" why they are so called seems not to have been quite settled : one version is, their fondness for the Bummelow fish, salted and dried, called duck. Another, and current in the Presidency, is, that during our Pindaree and Maharatta campaigns the Bombay troops kept the field in their tents (not the best in India), and used to visit their guards and make their reports on charpoys (or rude India couches)
floated on pots--a common practice among natives during a very high overflow of the rivers in the rains. Be this as it may, take the Bombay officers as a body, they are a right good set of men, rough and ready, and hospitable in the extreme. As to their fighting qualities, the Deccan, Ghuznee, and Khelat, the Persian Gulf, and Mooltan, have borne ample testimony that the Duck is a very rough customer.
I arrived at Mhow, the only station in the Bombay Presidency in which Bengal troops were then serving. The force consisted only of a troop of horse artillery under then Captain, now Lieutenant-Colonel Lawrenson, with Captains Edward Christie and Apperly, both since dead : the former killed in the retreat from Chillianwallah, where he had a troop, and the latter a victim to fever. On arriving at Mhow I took up my quarters with poor Christie, and of course called upon the General commanding there, Major-General Brooks, well known as one of the best officers in the Bombay army. I received the greatest attention from the General ;
it made the deeper impression by reason of the difference of our respective ranks. The setting in of the rains prevented my proceeding at once to join my regiment in Bengal; I was therefore compelled to remain at Mhow. Our affairs in Scinde were at this time anything but satisfactory. The political and military authorities were at issue. The Murrees, a tribe of hill Scindians, had given us an awful lesson at Nafoosk, in the destruction of the detachment under Major Clibborn ; Lieutenant (late Major) Lewis Brown, the bravest of the brave, held Khahun besieged by hordes ; in fact, all the Scinde hills and plains were rising, and as recent events under Sir Charles Napier have proved, at the instigation of the treacherous Ameers— Meer Roostam being the greatest fool (seventy-nine years old), was also proved to be a great knave; whilst Alì Moorad, the knave, was allowed to turn Queen's evidence, and obtain what he had for years been seeking—the destruction of the Khyrpoor dynasty and possession of the Ghuddee or throne.