India is a continent—not a country—composed of many races that differ far more than European nationalities. A Russian and an Englishman, a Swede and an Italian are nearer akin, more alike in appearance, manners, and modes of thought than a Gurkha and a Pathan, a Sikh and a Mahratta, a Rajput and a Madrassi. It follows that the fighting value of all these various races of India is not the same. No one would seek among the Bengali babus or the Parsees of Bombay for warriors. The Madras sepoy, though his predecessors helped to conquer India for British rule, has fallen from his high estate and is no longer regarded as a reliable soldier. Yet the wisdom of the policy which relegated him of late years altogether to the background during war may be questioned. For the Madras sappers and miners, who alone of all the Madras army have been constantly employed, have always proved satisfactory. But the fiat has gone forth; and the Madrassi will be gradually replaced even in his own presidency by the men of the more martial races of the North. The Mahratta, who once struck terror throughout the length and breadth of Hindustan, is considered by some critics to be no longer useful as a fighting man. But they forget that not so long ago in the desperate battles near Suakin, when even British troops gave back before the mad rushes of fanatical Dervishes, the 28th Bombay Pioneers saved a broken square from imminent destruction by their steadfast bravery. And they were Mahrattas then. Of the excellence of the gallant warrior clans of Rajputana, of the fierce Pathans inured to fighting from boyhood, of the sturdy, cheerful, little Gurkhas, the steady, long‐limbed Sikhs, none can doubt. Hard to conquer were they in the past; splendid to lead to battle now. To Lord Roberts is chiefly due the credit of welding together the Indian army and making it the formidable fighting machine it is.

One great factor of its efficiency is the excellence of its British officers. Early placed in a position of responsibility, they rapidly learn to rely on themselves and act, if need be, on their own initiative. In a British regiment an officer may serve twenty years without commanding more than a company; whereas the Indian army subaltern, before he has worn a sword three years, may find himself in command of his battalion on field‐days, in manœuvres, sometimes even in war. In the stern fighting at the Malakand in the beginning of the Tirah campaign, one Punjaub regiment was commanded by a subaltern, who acquitted himself of his difficult task with marked ability. Unlike the system of promotion that exists in the British army, the English officers of the native corps attain the different grades after a certain number of years’ service—nine for captain, eighteen for major, twenty‐six for lieutenant‐colonel—and may occupy any position in their regiments irrespective of the rank they hold.

An Indian infantry battalion consists of eight companies, each under a native officer, termed a subhedar, with a jemadar or lieutenant to assist him. He is responsible for the discipline and interior economy of his company. The senior native officer is known as the subhedar‐major. Instead of the terms lance‐corporal, corporal, sergeant, and sergeant‐major, lance‐naik, naik, havildar, and havildar‐major are the names of the corresponding grades.

The British officers practically form the staff of the regiment. The former number of eight has been recently increased to eleven, twelve, and thirteen, according to the presidency to which the corps belongs, those of the Punjaub—being nearest the danger zone of frontier wars and threatened invasion—possessing the largest number. The eight companies are grouped in four double companies—the double company commander (a British officer) having almost complete control of his unit. The commanding officer of the battalion mainly restricts himself to seeing that the training of each portion of the regiment is identical and efficient. Each corps possesses a commanding officer, four double company commanders, an adjutant, a quartermaster, and the remainder are known as double company officers.

The organisation of a native cavalry regiment is very similar, the terms squadron and squadron‐commander replacing double company and double company commander. In most of the corps the sowar, as the Indian cavalry private is called—sepoy being employed to denote an infantryman—is usually the owner of his horse; and direct commissions to native gentlemen are of more frequent occurrence in the cavalry than in the infantry. Regimental transport consists of baggage‐ponies or mules, so that an Indian mounted corps is particularly mobile.

Foreign officers in North China at first made light of our Indian soldiers; but they were not those who had seen them fight in the early days of the campaign. For one arm, however, there was nothing but praise. All agreed that our native cavalry was excellent. Even German officers acknowledged that in smartness, horsemanship, and efficiency it could not easily be surpassed. The work done by the 1st Bengal Lancers in the advance on Pekin and afterwards could not be underrated. With the exception of a few Cossacks and Japanese, they were the only mounted troops available at first. They were in constant demand to accompany columns of Continental troops, and they won the admiration of all the foreign officers with whom they were brought in contact. In fact, the only persons who failed to appreciate their merits were the Tartar horsemen who ventured to oppose them in the march on the capital. Their opinion is not recorded, but I think that it would not be fit for publication except in an expunged and mutilated form. The 3rd Bombay Light Cavalry—as good a regiment as any that Bengal can show—won many encomiums for its smartness from all who saw its squadrons at Tientsin, Shanghai, or Shanhaikwan.

But Indian officers were at first surprised and puzzled at the unflattering criticisms passed on our native infantry. Those who had seen our sepoys in many a hard‐fought struggle on the frontier could not understand the frequent remarks of foreign officers, that “our men were very unequal.”

“Some of them,” they said, “are tall, well‐built, and powerful, and should make good soldiers; but others are old, feeble, and decrepit. We have seen in the streets of Tientsin many who could not support the weight of a rifle.” But it was soon discovered that these critics failed to comprehend the distinction between fighting men and followers, since in China both were clad somewhat alike. The coolie corps, bheesties, syces, and dhoolie‐bearers were all dressed in khaki; and Continental officers were for a long time under the impression that these were soldiers. The error was not unnatural, and it accounted for the unfavourable reports on the Indian troops which appeared in many European journals. But those who understood the difference were struck by the fine physique and excellent training of our native army. When we compared our Sikhs, Pathans, Gurkhas, and Punjaubis with the men of most of the Allied forces, we recognised that, led by British officers, they would render a good account of themselves if pitted against any troops in the world. And our sepoys return to India filled with immeasurable contempt for the foreign contingents they have seen in China. As the ripples caused by a stone thrown into a lake spread over the water, so their opinion will radiate through the length and breadth of the land; and this unexpected lesson of the campaign will have a far‐reaching and beneficial effect throughout our Eastern Empire.

India is essentially a soldier’s country. Its army is practically always on a war footing, the troops near the frontier especially being ready to move at a few hours’ notice. The rapid despatch of the British contingent for Natal and the China expeditionary force are object‐lessons. The peace establishment of a native regiment is greater than the strength required for active service. Hence on mobilisation no reserves have to be called up to fill its ranks; recruits and sickly men can be left behind, and it marches with only fully trained and seasoned soldiers. In India vast stretches of country are available for manœuvres, which take place every winter on a scale unknown in England. Not a year passes without its little war. In consequence, the training of the troops is thorough and practical. The establishment of gun and rifle factories is all that is needed to make India absolutely self‐containing. It produces now all other requisites of war. Ammunition, clothing, and accoutrements are manufactured in the country, and it was able to supply, not only the needs of the expedition in China, but also many things required for the troops in South Africa.

To the pessimists in England and the hostile critics abroad, who talk of the possibility of another mutiny, the answer is that a general uprising of the Native army can never occur again. The number of British troops in India has been more than doubled since 1857, and the proportion between white and coloured regiments in each large station more equalised. The artillery is altogether in English hands, with the exception of the rank and file of a few mountain batteries and the smooth‐bore guns maintained by native princes for show. Communication has been enormously quickened by the network of railways that covers the country, enabling a force to be moved in two or three days to a point where formerly as many months were required.

And the Indian army is loyal to the core—loyal, not to the vague idea of a far‐distant England, not to the vast impersonal Sircar,2 but loyal to itself; loyal to its British officers, who, to the limited minds of the sepoys, represent in concrete form the Power whose salt they eat. And those officers, speaking to each in his own tongue—be he Sikh, Rajput, or Dogra—stand in the relation of fathers to their men. To them in sorrow or perplexity comes the sepoy, sure of sympathy or aid. In their justice he reposes implicit confidence. And as in peace he relies on these men of alien race, so in war do they trust in him. And the tales of the struggle of the Guides round Battye’s corpse, of the gallant Sikhs who died at their post in Saragheri, of the men who refused to abandon their dead and dying officers in the treachery of Maizar, show that our trust is not misplaced.