On landing, I received a letter from my father, who commanded the Lahore division, informing me that the proprietor of Spence’s Hotel had been instructed to receive me, and that I had better put up there until I reported myself at the Head-Quarters of the Bengal Artillery at Dum-Dum.  This was chilling news, for I was the only one of our party who had to go to a hotel on landing.  The Infantry cadets had either been taken charge of by the Town Major, who provided them with quarters in Fort William, or had gone to stay with friends, and the only other Artilleryman (Stewart) went direct to Dum-Dum, where he had a brother, also a gunner, who, poor follow, was murdered with his young wife five years later by the mutineers at Gwalior.  I was still more depressed later on by finding myself at dinner tete-a-tete with a first-class specimen of the results of an Indian climate.  He belonged to my own regiment, and was going home on medical certificate, but did not look as if he could ever reach England.  He gave me the not too pleasing news that by staying in that dreary hotel, instead of proceeding direct to Dum-Dum, I had lost a day’s service and pay, so I took care to join early the following morning.

A few years before, Dum-Dum had been a large military station, but the annexation of the Punjab, and the necessity for maintaining a considerable force in northern India, had greatly reduced the garrison.  Even the small force that remained had embarked for Burma before my arrival, so that, instead of a large, cheery mess party, to which I had been looking forward, I sat down to dinner with only one other subaltern.

No time was lost in appointing me to a Native Field Battery, and I was put through the usual laboratory course as a commencement to my duties.  The life was dull in the extreme, the only variety being an occasional week in Fort William, where my sole duty was to superintend the firing of salutes.  Nor was there much in my surroundings to compensate for the prosaic nature of my work.  Fort William was not then what it has since become—­one of the healthiest stations in India.  Quite the contrary.  The men were crowded into small badly-ventilated buildings, and the sanitary arrangements were as deplorable as the state of the water supply.  The only efficient scavengers were the huge birds of prey called adjutants, and so great was the dependence placed upon the exertions of these unclean creatures, that the young cadets were warned that any injury done to them would be treated as gross misconduct.  The inevitable result of this state of affairs was endemic sickness, and a death-rate of over ten per cent. per annum.[1]

Calcutta outside the Fort was but a dreary place to fall back upon.  It was wretchedly lighted by smoky oil-lamps set at very rare intervals.  The slow and cumbrous palankin was the ordinary means of conveyance, and, as far as I was concerned, the vaunted hospitality of the Anglo-Indian was conspicuous by its absence.