‘The mother still holds her unhappy son in bonds, and forbids him even to breathe the air of our compound.... But even about her we need not despair. I was reading the Gospel to-day with the sweetest-looking elderly woman that I have seen in India. All beauty generally departs with youth, but this woman is really attractive still. She was in bitter grief at the baptism of her eldest son; when the next was baptized she blessed him; and now she is quite ready for baptism herself. Such a sweet expression came over her face yesterday when I reminded her of her former grief and her present joy!’
On August 8th she wrote:—
‘The old Chaukidar[44] made us laugh the other evening by his earnest, emphatic warning against our ladies driving out at night. He uses sometimes almost frantic gesticulations. He told us that there is danger of meeting at night a dreadful being, in appearance somewhat like Mr. H.—a tall, fair, blue-eyed handsome young friend of ours!—whose object is to cut off English heads. I have heard of a similar superstition in the Hills; but there I fancy that Native heads, not English, were in requisition. You can imagine from this what a funny fellow the old Chaukidar is; but we look on him as true as steel. One day Mrs. E. found him most good-naturedly pulling Iman’s pankah for him. She was so much pleased that she gave him four pomegranates. The old fellow was delighted, and at once gave three of them away, keeping only one for himself. His friend, our half-blind Iman, was one to benefit by his generosity.’
The name ‘Iman,’ meaning ‘Faith,’ was bestowed by Miss Tucker upon a poor pankah-wala, whose affectionate disposition made a strong impression upon her. The poor fellow, although half-blind, volunteered one day to walk the whole twenty-four miles to Batala and back in three days, to carry medicine to a sick woman there,—the wife of the young Muhammadan, Babu G., above mentioned. Iman himself was, to say the least, disposed to be a Christian. These little side facts all serve to show the manner of influence which was acting gradually in all directions.
In another letter, belonging to August, are the words: ‘We are rather on the tiptoe of expectation about our Bishop that is to be. There is a rumour that good Mr. —— is the man; but surely it is impossible that such a shy, boy-like Missionary should be turned into a Right Reverend Father!’ The appointment when made proved to be that of Bishop French, well known in Mutiny days as Mr. French of Agra, who utterly refused to allow the Christian Natives to be banished from the town, as was proposed by some faint-hearted people there. If they went, Mr. French said, he would go with them; and he undertook to answer for their faithfulness. His resolution prevailed; and the little band of Indian Christians were faithful to the end of the Siege.
About this time a change took place, which A. L. O. E. ‘quite approved,’ but which she did not ‘like.’ Mrs. Elmslie left the Mission Bungalow, to live at the neighbouring Orphan House, taking charge of the orphans. A superintendent under her had hitherto done the work, but had proved inefficient; and the new plan was not only better in itself, but promised to save money—always a prime consideration where Missionary funds have to be considered.
On August 23rd comes a letter of some importance, respecting the kind of Missionaries wanted out there. This subject will recur from time to time in the course of the correspondence; but even at so early a stage as this Miss Tucker seems to have clearly grasped what was and what was not required.
‘It is very kind in you to send me the Illustrated. After it has been seen here, and at the Orphanage, and by the dear, good Germans, off it starts for Dalhousie, and Florrie probably makes it over to the soldiers after she has done with it; so you see that you benefit many by your kindness.
‘I do not think that my Margaret at all enjoys being away from us in the schoolhouse, though she keeps bright and brave. “The Mother is as home-sick as can be,” was the description given by one of our ladies, this house being the “home” meant. Of course, we go over and pet her, and get her here when we can. I hear that her room was leaking so last night; that must be looked to at once. But rooms had a fair excuse for leaking; we had such a storm!...
‘It was amusing when Emily, Ada, and I were talking over our youth the other day. Dashing, energetic games had been the delight of my companions; and I begin to imagine that cricket, rounders, and bolstering form no bad preparation for Missionary life. Dash and energy and physical strength are very desirable. We want ladies who fear nothing, grumble at nothing, and are ready to carry the Holy War into the enemy’s camp. One of Emily’s many advantages is that she is a fearless rider. I am rather alarmed at hearing that an extremely delicate lady is coming out to us. We want hearty, strong ladies, not sickly ones. The Missionaries are too short of hands to be able to undertake much sick-nursing. If I were to require to be nursed at night—which, thank God, I have not done—I should feel inclined to run off somewhere or other, so as not to tax the strength of my nieces.’
Only two days later we have mention of the first Baptism in Batala, her future home during so many years. She writes: ‘A deeply interesting event took place yesterday at Batala; the baptism of a Brahmin, a man in a very influential position, and in Government employ. Dear Sadiq[45] and I believe other Christians went to Batala on Wednesday for the Baptism, which was to be as public as possible—in a tank.’ This was written August 25; and on the 29th she gave more particulars.
‘The jackals treated us to their varied music last night; but one does not mind them a bit, for they never seem to attack people, or intrude into houses. I wish that they would teach their good manners to the sparrows. The cheetah also is a modest creature. There was an account very lately of a cheetah going into a verandah at Dalhousie; nothing between it and the interior of the house but a chick blind; but it was too polite to intrude. It would be rather exciting to look at a cheetah through a chick blind; you can see through it quite well, as the light is outside.
‘But, O Laura, I ought not to waste my space on cheetahs or jackals, when I can write of things so much more interesting. I had such an interesting account of the Baptism of B—n, the Brahmin at Batala, from Mr. Beutel,[46] supplemented by one from Sadiq. They were both present.... Mr. Beutel observed that he (B—n) had had to go through more than many do in a campaign. Why, except the Catechist and his wife, he is the only Christian that we know of in that fierce, bigoted Batala. As the Muhammadans did not know of the time fixed for the baptism, at the beginning of the Service by the tank not many people gathered; but seeing that something was going on, gradually a crowd collected. At last the crowd grew large—and excited also—and the police authority had to be called in for protection.
‘Perhaps the worst of all was the Christian’s reception at his home; his wife came with her three little ones to meet him, beating her breast, etc. Sadiq had intended to carry B—n back to Amritsar with him, to let the first fury of the storm blow over; but poor B—n preferred remaining at Batala, because if he left his wife, he did not know what she might do with his children. So there the brave fellow remains. We ought to pray earnestly for this our brother.’
In a letter to her niece, Mrs. Boswell, on September 1st, Charlotte Tucker spoke of herself as ‘heart-sick with anxiety’ about the convert, regretting much that he had not come to Amritsar.
‘Would that he could have carried wife and children off with him! but I suppose that this was impossible, against the woman’s will. Dear Sadiq soon went again to Batala;—alas! he was not suffered to see the convert, who is surrounded by enemies, and seems to be quite in their power. B—n’s wife, after starving herself for three days from grief at his baptism, has died, it is said from an attack of cholera.
‘Our fear is that the heathen are starving B—n and his three children to death! One poor lamb is but a few months old. If I were a man, I would be off to Batala. My friend Mr. H. has written a strong note to an English official at no great distance from Batala,—there not one Englishman resides,—and I feel little doubt that he will bring the strong arm of the law to protect B—n. But the note will not reach till this evening. For eight days B—n will have been in the fiery furnace. How long can he hold out?’
Reports, happily false, of the retractation of the convert came to distress them at Amritsar; and Mr. Beutel, leaving his wife and mother dangerously ill, went over to Batala to inquire how matters stood. He found B—n, though much tried and sorely pressed, still standing firm.
It is melancholy to read of Charlotte Tucker’s eager delight in carrying the good news to her favourite Maulvi Z.,—of whom at that time she thought so well and hopefully as an established Christian, and who in later years was to grieve her most bitterly by himself becoming an apostate.
Letters at this time show her steadily growing interest in Batala, her ever-increasing desire for systematic work there.
‘Sept. 14, 1876.—I have been delaying writing till I could give you news from Batala,—that place towards which Missionary eyes longingly turn, as those of the Germans did towards Strasburg. May Batala be given to us, as Strasburg was to them.’
‘Sept. 20.—As regards my little Indian tales, I have sent a good many to Nelson, who has accepted them; and consequently I suppose intends to publish them. It is very likely that they have been appearing in the Family Treasury.... Sadiq had just come from Batala, where he had seen B—n. Dear Sadiq! I think that he must have gone altogether seven or eight times to Batala. He is a friend worth having. B—n expressed his willingness to bring his little girls to Amritsar; but his baby was so very, very ill, that he feared she could not be moved.... The little lamb appeared to be sinking fast. My surprise is how she has been kept alive so long. The last account was that the baby was “not fit to be picked off the charpai”;[47] she seemed dying. Dear little martyred innocent,—dying because her father gave himself to Christ! B—n intends to bring his two elder children; but of course nothing can be done while baby is dying....
‘O Laura, I feel as if these two deaths in Batala marked the place as our own. So much cannot have been suffered in vain.’
TO MISS ‘LEILA’ HAMILTON.
‘Sept. 26, 1876.
‘Those rogues of sparrows have fairly driven me out of my room this morning. They make such a chatter. I intend to request Mr. H. benevolently to shoot a few; just to show the rest that really they must not expect to be allowed to build, and gossip, and make themselves disagreeable in every possible way in the room of a Buzurg Miss Sahiba....
‘It is much cooler. These two last nights I have needed no pankah, and was able to bear a blanket. I have resumed wearing a merino vest by day, and it is very comfortable. The darzi,[48] who squats in the verandah, is busy on a magnificent dressing-gown, which I have ordered. I brought out flannel from England, but not a flannel dressing-gown, so I have bought a rich shawl-pattern, and the flannel will line it, and I shall look like a Maliká[49] and feel—almost as comfortable as a sparrow.... It seemed to be a question with the darzi whether the white flannel was to be inside or outside! The matter appeared to interest some of the servants. One lives in such a public way in India. Whatever one gives to be made or mended is made or mended in the verandah; and the darzi, as he cuts out, clips, and sews, talks—perhaps with the pankah-wala, perhaps a stranger, perhaps the munshi (tutor) whose pupil is not quite ready to take her lesson.... There is no shutting the world out; and the Indian world is such a curious world.
‘Then people’s characters are so public; no one seems to think it worth while to wear thick cloaks over them. Everybody seems to know about everybody else. The very public papers seem personal. ... O yes, India is a very curious place,—people curious,—ways curious,—insects curious,—dress curious, etc. The very Anglo-Saxon character appears in a new and curious aspect. India is a place to develop an instinct to command, and to carry things with a high hand. Weakness does almost as much harm as wickedness. But I feel myself too old to learn the zabardast[50] way of going on. I am not fitted to grasp reins of government, and drive a team of twenty-two Indian servants, syces, pankah-walas, bearer, khitmatgar, ayah, etc., see that the horses are not cheated of grain, that pankah-walas pull, that kahars don’t take French leave, etc. etc. I hope that Florrie[51] will hold the reins, if she and I go off together.’
‘Oct. 5.—We had a visit from our good Pastor Sadiq yesterday. I was the one to receive him. You know that I am not strong in the language yet. I knew that Sadiq was speaking about sickness, castor-oil, and quinine, and people going about to look after the sufferers; but I could not get at his full meaning; and as he was clearly on business, I thought it better to call in C. to my aid. It was well that I did! Sadiq’s heart was full of Batala—our Strasburg—where people are dying of fever, faster than even in Amritsar. Sadiq wanted a subscription to be made instanter to send off quinine and castor-oil. The Christian lawyer, R., would go on to-day or to-morrow, and Sadiq himself would follow on Monday. Talk of languid, apathetic Hindus! Sadiq, when he takes a thing into his head, goes at it like a battering-ram....
‘To-day I had what seemed to poor me a long tête-à-tête with the Pandit from O——, that village which you will remember I visited with Margaret. O dear! it was a bit of a mental effort. He is a learned man! I longed for C. to come to my rescue, but battled with verbs and genders as well as I could.
‘I was determined to do the polite, so I boldly asked the Pandit to stay to dinner. I could do so, as, oddly enough, I am now the senior Missionary at Amritsar,[52] though I feel such a child in the language. Rather to my surprise, the Pandit accepted my invitation at once. He would not eat with us when he was here before, nor when at O——, for he is a curious half-and-half sort of Christian,[53] leading such a lonely life amongst heathen. The Pandit shared our meal, but only took vegetables and bread-and-butter.
‘Do you not laugh at the notion of poor Char, sitting at the head of a table, and entertaining a Pandit, and feeling her ignorance, and plunging about in a bog of Urdu? I did not, however, attempt to talk much after C. came in, as she has been nearly four years in India, and speaks the language well.’
When the next letter was written, on October 14, the Batala plan was under discussion. Padri Sadiq seems to have first suggested the idea that Miss Tucker should proceed thither with Miss Swainson, and open a Mission in the place. Miss Tucker does not appear to have at first viewed the scheme with any great enthusiasm.
‘Such a merry breakfast we had this morning! Our three dear ladies, Margaret, Emily, and Florrie, arrived at about 9 A.M. after nine hours of raft,—very tiring, for it involved much walking, and it was raining away,—and twelve of dâk-gari. Margaret looked young and lovely; Florrie much improved.... She is delighted with the Batala scheme; but Margaret tells me that it cannot be carried out till December at earliest, and I have my doubts about its being carried out at all. At any rate, the difficulties will not have come from me. I am quite willing to go; but of course a new station would involve the Committee in expenses, and it is not easy to procure a suitable house, etc., so it is likely enough that Sadiq’s plan will be disapproved of in high quarters. I quietly wait to see what direction is taken by “the fiery, cloudy pillar.” ...
‘Last night I had to chaperon to our noisy, bustling station after dark a young Missionary, who looks to me quite unfledged. There I met the school-teacher, Miss ——, with her young sister, yet more unfledged, bound on the same errand.... I think that the stations at Indian cities are more noisy and bustling than the worst London ones. It almost shocks my sense of propriety, young girls travelling at night,—it is funny even to an old lady, hurrying up and down a bustling platform amongst Natives. I think that I managed pretty well for my charge, for I got her into a carriage with a lady and children, so she was safe enough; she was not to cross the Sutlej till daylight. Poor little Miss —— was put by her sister into an empty carriage; but who knows whether some drunken, low European may not have got into it at the next station? And the poor, simple little thing was to cross the Sutlej at midnight, with her baggage to look after!!! We would hardly do such things in England. I have slept a night here, with not a soul in the house but myself, and the house seems so strangely open; but I was not a bit afraid.’
‘Oct. 20, 1876.—When this reaches you, perhaps you will be feeling the first pinch of winter. We do not escape it here in our bright, glowing Panjab. I cherish a fond hope that if we go to Batala, we shall find it warmer than Amritsar.... Emily, Florrie, and Sadiq have gone off to-day on a house-hunting expedition to Batala. It is considered a very healthy place; except, of course, at present—an exceptional season. If I go, I do not expect to have much to do at first except learn the language. I leave school-work to Florrie; she is well up to it; and I hear that Zenanas are likely to be very slow in opening....
‘My Munshi ... asked me to give him leave of absence on the next day, or that following it, as it would be the Muhammadans’ great day. He could not tell me which of the two days it would be, because all would depend on the moon. If the moon were seen on the night after the 18th, then the 19th would be the feast day, the end of the long Muhammadan fast. If the moon were not seen, the poor people must wait till the 20th. “Suppose,” said I, “that the people at Lahore see the moon, and that those at Amritsar do not, will the Lahore folk have a feast and you a fast?” A. answered in the affirmative....
‘I talked with A. a little about the fasting. He told me with gusto that he had once gone to the house of a Muhammadan friend, who happened to have a little hole in his door, on one of the days of the fast. A., the old rogue, peeped through the hole, and detected his friend in the act of eating. A. then knocked at the door. His friend—it made me think of Friar Tuck!—popped the food into a box, wiped his mouth, and was ready to receive his visitor. “What were you doing?” asked A. “Reading,” was the reply. Then A. opened the box, and showed the discomfited hypocrite the food, and—according to his own account—gave the man a lecture. I have my doubts about the latter part of the story—I mean the lecture.’
‘Oct. 26.—Our poor city has been bearing some resemblance to a hospital. Some think that not one of her inhabitants—120,000—has altogether escaped the fever, and many have died; but I am thankful to write that the sickness is on the decrease.... I cannot, however, go to dear Louis, for the Beutels, who have been very ill, are going to Ludhiana; and their mother, too ill to be moved, must have some one to look after her a little during their absence. I am the only lady available, being well, and with no pressure of work. I am almost astonished at having been so exempted from suffering, when thousands and thousands have been so ill. I have not spent a day in bed ... since leaving England. It is a cause for much thankfulness. Of course I had a little fever, but it has left no dregs. The weather is so nice, that one hardly understands why any one should be ill....
‘The Batala plan is rather hanging fire at present. Day after day passes, and no reply is received to the letter asking permission for us to occupy apartments in the palace. No other place in or near Batala seems to be available. Even in the palace considerable alterations would be needed, to make the rooms at all suitable for English ladies.’
‘Nov. 16.—Sadiq does not quite approve of our selection of a house. He would have liked one right in the city; but it is far pleasanter to us to be a little out of it.... I asked him if he had any news of B—n. Sadiq told me that he had seen him at Batala, the beginning of last week. Our brave Brahmin convert had been very ill, and had written—or caused to be written—a paper stating that he wished his body to be buried by Christians, his children brought up by Christians, and his property taken care of by the Mission. I am thankful to say that B—n did not die; but as Sadiq said, he has had affliction upon affliction.... In a few months this convert has lost wife, babe, and only brother. Sadiq said that B—n’s regret about the babe was that it had not been baptized. But when I remarked that I thought the babe had been a kind of martyr, like the little ones killed by Herod, Sadiq looked pleased.’
‘Dec. 1.—I suppose that my next letter will be addressed to you from my new home in Batala. My nieces are very anxious to make arrangements for my comfort. I am not to have the trouble of helping to put the new house into order. Two ladies go before to make everything nice....
‘I went to dear S. Begum to-day,—the one who was lately baptized with her young daughter,—to speak to her about Holy Communion. I am glad that I shall have the First Sunday in Advent in Amritsar. It will seem strange to reside in a place where there is no church! I suppose that we shall go over to the Catechist’s house, and have Urdu service there....
‘It was very interesting to hear Mr. Wade’s account of the opening of a little church in the village of G. The peculiar and very interesting feature of the affair is that in this Rajput village a little flock has been gathered just by Native agency. And the way for the Native evangelist, the excellent C., was wondrously prepared.
‘In old Runjit’s time a kind of Native prophet declared that our Lord was greater than all others. This Pandit was succeeded by another, who declared that all the people would become the Lord’s followers. They who came first would receive honour; they who came next, a mere subsistence; they who came last would be driven in! Then a third teacher arose—the present one. He said that a shepherd pushes one sheep after another into the fold, and when all are in follows himself; and that so he would get the people into the Christian fold, and then follow them.
‘It seems to us a most extraordinary way of evangelising; but when the Rev. C. came to the village, he found that these strange teachers had really ploughed up the ground to receive the good seed; and the third teacher has come himself into the fold with four of his relatives. His wife still holds out.
‘The opening of the tiny church was a delightful scene. There are only 14 or 15 baptized Christians; but the people, men and women, flocked in, till there was hardly room to sit on the ground. In the thoroughly Oriental church there are no seats.’
‘Dec. 4, 1876.—I have this morning read your loving expostulation to Margaret and myself regarding Batala. You think that your strong point is my unfitness for an out-station. But, sweet one, you forget that I am so specially fitted, by age, for the post, that if I were to draw back, the whole promising plan might fall to the ground. The Natives reverence grey hairs; and I dare say that some of them will pet me. As for the language, I manage to get on after a fashion, and smiles go a good way.
‘I assure you that I have never felt my heart lighter than I have done lately, fond as I am of those I leave. It seems as if the way were so plain. If I were perfectly dumb, I should still be useful as a chaperon. But I am not quite dumb.
‘I had such a golden First Sunday in Advent yesterday.... Fancy the encouragement of seeing B—n, the one Christian convert residing in Batala, and sharing the Cup with him in our dear Amritsar Church. I shook hands with him after afternoon service. I am sorry that when I uttered the two words, “Hamara bhai,”[54] I should have said “Hamare,” instead of “Hamara.” It was a pity that my first word should have been incorrect; but I could not think of grammar at such a moment.... Then I have had such an encouraging note from dear Emily, who is making things straight for me at Batala....—Your happy
Char.’
In December 1876 Charlotte Maria Tucker entered upon the final stage of her earthly career. Final in a sense; for though more than once Batala had to be temporarily deserted, the place was never given up. Thenceforward, Batala became in very truth her home; Batala work was essentially her work; and the remaining years of her life were devoted to Batala.
Having once made up her mind that she was definitely called to this particular post, nothing could withhold her. Difficulties, oppositions, hindrances, prospects of loneliness, imperfect knowledge of Indian languages, increasing age,—all these were as nothing in the way. If she was called, she would go! And Miss Tucker believed that she was called.
Others were not so sure. Mrs. Elmslie wrote on the 8th of December to Mrs. Hamilton: ‘I agree with you that your beloved sister’s power lies in gifts which can be used to perhaps greater influence here than in an out-station. This isolation from European society is not what I should have chosen for one who can exercise so much influence for good among her own countrymen; and whose pen can do more for India than perhaps the lives of many others.’ No doubt this view of the question weighed greatly in the judgment of many. For one who can write books suitable to Indian requirements, there are scores of Missionaries who can with ease learn the Native languages, and who can visit and teach in Zenanas, perhaps far more effectually than A.L.O.E. did.
To lookers-on it may seem that she judged wrongly here; that her eagerness for personal work was a mistake; that she might have done more by following the advice of her friends, and remaining at Amritsar. Advice she had; for Mrs. Elmslie says in the same letter: ‘We have one and all of us tried to dissuade her from going; but she sees the Pillar going straight on before her. And who are we that we should gainsay it?’
Suppose she only fancied that she ‘saw the Pillar,’—in other words, that she was called or led or ordered to Batala? A mistake of this description is not impossible, especially in the case of an ardent and impulsive nature. If so, it was the mistake of burning love and self-devotion; and one can well believe that such a mistake must be dearer to the Heart of our Lord than the correct attitude of those who always decide on the safe and comfortable side.
But why should we imagine it to have been a mistake? The true gist of the matter is not, after all, to be found in the question as to which particular type of work she might be best fitted for intellectually. The main question was rather—to which especial work was she bidden by her Master? One can hardly live many years on Earth, with observant eyes, and believe that people are always or generally given exactly that work to do, for which they are by natural powers best adapted. Things often seem, indeed, just the other way; people being put to work for which they appear to be least well adapted, and simply having to do their best. To us it may seem that A.L.O.E.’s pen was worth more to India than all her heroic struggles to conquer the languages and to teach in Zenanas. But if, as with her whole heart she believed, God had called her to work in Batala,—‘who are we,’ to say that she should have remained away? The Commander-in-Chief of an army has a perfect right to place his soldiers where he will; and so long as the soldier who is ordered to any particular post hears the word of command, it matters very little whether anybody else hears it also.
Suppose A.L.O.E. had not gone to Batala, but had taken the advice of others, and had remained at Amritsar! Possibly she might, by devoting herself to writing alone, have accomplished treble or quadruple the number of little books and tracts for India which she did accomplish. But then a very heroic example of courage and self-devotion would have been lost to the Church. At Amritsar she would have had plenty of loving friends, and would have been altogether more comfortable, altogether in easier circumstances. Easy and comfortable examples, however, are not rare. Even the writing of a good many more little books might not have made up to us for what we should have lost in other respects.
Besides,—she believed that she had her ‘marching orders.’ Even if, by any possibility, she were mistaken in that belief, she could not disobey. A soldier always instantly obeys what he believes to be the order given.
Yet it could have been no light matter,—this going forth alone, with only one young companion, into a very fastness of Muhammadanism and Heathenism. Miss Tucker herself was no longer young. Though marvellously strong and spirited for her time of life, she was now in her fifty-sixth year; hardly an age when, at the best, a woman is commonly willing to undertake great responsibilities in a new and untried direction. It was, however, true, as she said, that if she did not go, the Mission in Batala could not be at once started—as a resident Mission. No two young women could have gone there alone. They must have waited for a married Missionary and his wife to head the effort.
In this step of Miss Tucker’s a clue may perhaps be found for some lives, here or there, where a vocation is earnestly sought and not yet found. Why should not other middle-aged ladies go out, as she went out?—not necessarily always to attempt full Zenana work; but to be protectors, housekeepers, nurses, to younger and more active ladies? Whether it would be right to use any portion of Mission-funds for such a purpose may be doubted; and in many a case Mission rooms could not be spared; but there are exceptions as to the latter. And as to the money part of the question, doubtless many a warm-hearted lady, over fifty years of age, free from home-ties, with a spirit full of love and self-devotion, could afford to spend £150 or £200 a year on such an object. Much might be done by her to cheer up the workers, to leave them more free for all that needed most to be done,—and indirectly she might help forward the work of evangelisation by the mere force of a fair Christian example in a dark land. There can be no question that Miss Tucker’s life worked far more effectually than her words. What she said may have been long ago forgotten. What she was will never be forgotten. Her spoken words doubtless had at the time some power; her written words perhaps had much more; her life had by far the most of all.
For any such line of life as is above suggested, however, only that type of woman is fit which has been already described in some of A.L.O.E.’s letters. Thin-skinned, anxious, feeble-spirited ladies, easily worried and easily vexed, will not do; and angular, managing, argumentative ladies would be quite as unsuitable. Those alone may venture who are not only fairly strong in health, vigorous in spirit, fearless as to difficulties, and careless as to discomforts, but who are also gentle, kind-hearted, sympathetic, willing to yield to the judgment of others, ready to please and not to rule. Almost above everything else, there should be a freedom from grumbling tendencies. If such elderly ladies of England are willing to tread in A.L.O.E.’s footsteps, and to give the Evenings of their lives to Mission-work, openings enough for them might be found.
The closing words of Mrs. Elmslie’s letter to Mrs. Hamilton on December 8, show what Miss Tucker’s presence in the Amritsar bungalow had been: ‘I shall miss my darling Charlotte much. She has been sunshine to me ever since she came; and I am accustomed to think of her as a very precious gift from a loving Father Who knows our need. I hope to have her again at Christmas. Please feel assured that we shall tenderly watch over your dear one, even though not so closely together as formerly.’ Miss Wauton also, speaking of that time, says: ‘Her general presence was a great cheer to her fellow-workers there.’
Mention has been made of the Mission-tree,—a large banyan, in front of the Amritsar bungalow, where Miss Tucker had now spent so many months. The central trunk had received the name of Amritsar, and other slender trunks around, already rooted, had received the names of various out-stations, where occasional work had been begun, but where no Missionaries yet resided. One slender shoot was called after Batala. It had then just reached the ground, but was not firmly rooted. Now, in 1895, it is ‘a thick, substantial trunk.’
Batala, a walled town, about a mile across, has a population of some 25,000 people, and is twenty-four miles to the east of Amritsar. The Dalhousie range of the mighty Himalayas lies about fifty miles off; but the mountains, when snow-capped, look very much nearer. In those days there was not, as there is now, a line of rail connecting Amritsar with Batala. The journey from one to the other had commonly to be accomplished, either by tum-tum, a light cart, with two or three changes of horses; or else by ekka, a country cart, which last mode of conveyance was very often used by Miss Tucker in coming years. It was a peculiarly rough and wearisome mode of travelling, the ekka having no springs; but very early she took to doing as far as possible what the Indians do in such cases. Anything that would tend to make her one with them was eagerly attempted. For instance, she began speedily to sit upon the floor as Natives do; and at Indian gatherings or feasts she would not only sit as they sat, but would share their food. She must have been singularly supple-jointed for her years, to be able to adopt this position without any serious inconvenience. The Rev. Robert Clark writes, with reference to her Batala mode of life:—
‘No conveyance was kept. Miss Tucker always travelled in her little dhoolie (or bird’s-nest carriage), or in an ekka, a native conveyance without springs, where a seat about a yard square was perched on wooden wheels. On this she spread her bedding, which is always carried about by Missionaries. She was so well accustomed to sit on the ground, that her legs in this conveyance never were in the way. She gracefully folded them before or under her—we never could tell how—in a position which was very painful to most English people, but which seemed quite natural to her. She often used to trot over in this way, in an ekka, to Amritsar, on a road which caused many bumps and aches to most people’s heads and arms and bodies; but she would never allow that the shaking of twenty-four miles of such travelling as this ever did her any harm. I think she wished to be an example to us all. We used to travel then in tum-tums or buggies, or other vehicles with springs. But ekkas have much more become the fashion in our Missionary circles.’
One idea Miss Tucker had, on first going to Batala, which the other Missionaries dissuaded her with great difficulty from putting into execution. This was to dress as the Indians do! It was not considered a wise or desirable plan, from any point of view; but Charlotte Tucker had gone so far, in her enthusiasm, as to provide herself with a Native dress, and her heart was very much set upon wearing it. To make her give up this favourite idea was no easy matter.
Batala is a picturesque old town, with fine banyan-trees, and many old mango-tree gardens towards the north, enclosed either by walls or by aloe hedges, curiously appropriate for A. L. O. E. It is said that in her younger days a review of some of her books spoke of them as being ‘bitter, like the name of their Author.’ Did Miss Tucker ever recall this little notice when she looked upon the aloe hedges of Batala?
There is also a large lake-like tank close to the house in which Miss Tucker lived, and other tanks lie further off. This nearer tank has an ornamental pleasure-house in the middle; and the tomb of the man who dug the tank is on its bank. Many handsome old tombs are to be seen in the place. The town itself is old, with exceedingly crooked and narrow streets; so narrow, that a duli when carried through often touches the walls on both sides. The Batala people have the character of being particularly bigoted, hard-natured, quarrelsome, and difficult to deal with.
Early in 1876 Miss Wauton had written in the Society’s Report: ‘I think we may consider the Batala Mission now thoroughly established.’ This meant that about five Girls’ Schools had been opened for Hindu, Sikh, and Muhammadan scholars, under the superintendence of the Catechist’s wife, being from time to time visited by the Amritsar Missionary ladies. The children were taught elementary Christian truths; they learned to sing simple hymns; and books were given to them. The work, however, was hardly more than begun, when A. L. O. E. decided to make Batala her home. One Native Catechist and his wife were there; one Batala man had been baptized; and a certain number of children had begun to learn a few simple truths. For the rest, Batala was ‘a stronghold of bigoted Muhammadanism.’
And the first thing which had to be done was not to reap a harvest, not to begin looking for results, but simply to plough the hard ground, and thus to make seed-sowing a matter of possibility. When the ground was broken and softened, then the seed might be sown; after that, the sown seed could be watered, and the harvest patiently waited for.
Almost every letter at this time contains something of interest. To quote half of what might be quoted is impossible, for lack of space. It seems, however, worth while to give fuller records of these early days, when all was fresh, and when Miss Tucker’s interests were keenly awake to her novel surroundings, even though more fulness here means some curtailing later.
A certain change in the style of her letters is observable after she reached India, especially in the long series to Mrs. Hamilton. Personal matters are pushed very much into the background; while tendencies to introspection or to moralisings are almost non-existent. The letters fall naturally into a simple record of the work being done. She is far too fully occupied with things and people around to have any leisure to bestow upon her own feelings. Moreover, the mode of expression gains a terseness and vigour, not always characteristic of the earlier correspondence.
To write the life of A. L. O. E. at this period is hardly possible, without at the same time writing the life of the Infant Church at Batala. The one is almost identical with the other.
The house in which their first start was to be made is described by Miss Tucker, as will be seen, in somewhat glowing terms. She was resolutely bent upon making the best of everything, and upon seeing all around through her rose-coloured spectacles. There were, however, two sides to the question. The ‘house,’ so called, was in reality an old Sikh palace, ‘used by Sher Singh, son of Maharajah Singh, as a hunting-box.’ Sher Singh is said to have spent no more than one night in it. The building was very substantial, and two-storied. A central room below was over thirty feet in length, and another exactly over it was of the same size. Other smaller rooms lay around, and of these one was chosen for Miss Tucker’s bedroom. The great, ponderous, creaking doors were difficult to close; and the wind would sweep through them in a manner suggestive of chill and rheumatism. In the winter months they were very cold and comfortless apartments. The name of the old palace was ‘Anarkalli.’[55]
‘When we first used these rooms, during occasional visits to Batala,’ writes Miss Wauton, ‘they were largely haunted by owls, bats, and rats; and it was a long time before these occupants understood that they had notice to quit the premises. Then it seemed impossible ever to make those huge, weird, gloomy-looking rooms at all cosy and home-like. However, we did our best with matting, screens, and furniture, to make it look habitable. And in Miss Tucker’s eyes the very strangeness and romance of the place made up for its deficiency in warmth and comfort.’ Mr. Clark also, referring to this large and somewhat dreary palace, says of it: ‘The winds blew through many chinks in the uncurtained doors; and the house was once likened to Eden, because four streams flowed through it.’
Two days after her arrival she wrote to her favourite sister:—
‘Batala, Dec. 8, 1876.
‘Do not connect Batala with any idea of self-sacrifice. I am astonished to find myself in such a beautiful home. It is more suited for an Earl and Countess than for two lowly Missionaries; and yet our rent is only a little more than £20 a year! Certainly, we have had to make that very necessary article, a fireplace, and to build servants’ huts; but the house is grand! It seems unnatural to be the lady of it.
‘We do not intend to furnish the room in which I am now sitting,—till the fireplace is finished in our smaller room we use this fine apartment,—but its length is about thirty-six feet. Poor Shere Singh! little he guessed, when he built the fair mansion, that he was but to sleep in it for one night, and then be murdered at Lahore! He never dreamed of Mission-books, Bibles, etc., being stored up in those most convenient presses in the walls, which add exceedingly to one’s comfort. For really the native house is not only stately, but wondrously comfortable. It seems to me to be decidedly warmer than Amritsar bungalow—a matter of real importance to me. It is a great deal lighter, and I suspect that in summer it will be cooler also, at least in this room, which is splendidly protected from the sun.
‘Another advantage as regards both health and cheerfulness is that we live on the first floor, and this first floor is a good height from the ground. One first ascends five steps to the substantial platform on which the house is built, and then twenty-nine steps to our apartments. Florrie and I have each a nice, light, airy bedroom, with bathroom attached. We shall soon have a pleasant sitting-room, to which this splendid unfurnished apartment will serve as a vestibule.’
‘Dec. 9.—I have just come from the City,—we live more than half-a-mile out of it. O, my Laura, a wide door is open before us. I was told that Batala is a place where we could not read the Bible: but I have copied a great deal into my Bible picture-book; and there is no let or hindrance that I can see in showing the pictures, and reading the descriptions, which are God’s own Word.... I find that a good way to begin, when I enter a house, is by showing off my Zouave.[56] ... Every one is delighted with it. A good large group of women and children assemble.... It is harder for me to understand the women, than it is for them to understand me,—they sometimes jabber so; and if they mix Panjabi, I am all at sea. In the evenings I intend to do a little Panjabi with Florrie; and in return I teach her to play the guitar. I have begun to learn the alphabet, which has thirty-five letters. We hope next week to have an Urdu Munshi; but I only intend to have one hour and a half with him [i.e. daily]....
‘In nine days we hope to make a day’s itinerating tour to two villages. There are little schools in them,—not of course Christian. The poor women here seem inclined to like me, for which I am thankful. Florrie told me to-day that she thought she would have gone into fits of laughter at what was said of me. My being elderly and unmarried seemed to be giving an impression that I was a kind of saint or faqir,—perhaps my being thin and wearing my faithful old green dress added to the impression. One woman asked me whether I had eaten anything that day. Florrie thinks that it was from a courteous wish to feed me, if I had not.
‘I arrived here on Thursday,—-this is Saturday. Yesterday I saw poor, dear B—n at the house of the Catechist. He looked sad; not as he looked in the Amritsar church. I suspect that his Cross is still very heavy....
‘I am in excellent health, thank God, and Florrie seems to be getting all right again. She and I “pull well together, when yoked twain and twain.” I have not seen a single white face but hers—not even in travelling here—since I left the dear Amritsar bungalow. I think that I shall improve more rapidly in the language here than if I had remained at my first station.
‘What an extraordinary and somewhat romantic position I am in, for an elderly lady, who in her youth hardly ever stirred from a London home! How amazed we should have been when we were girls, if we could have known that I was to find my home in an Oriental palace—afar from all Europeans—and itinerate a little in heathen villages! How good God has been to your loving sister!’