A Soldier's Experience; or, A Voice from the Ranks

Chapter VIII (5)

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We can mourn the loss of a good, loving earthly father. You,
dear mother, will miss his sweet counsel, his noble, loving,
manly heart. But we cannot mourn him as one whose work was
not done. He has gone to his grave full of years (nearly
83[28]). And you have another consolation, that he died at
his post, like a good soldier--faithful unto death. He tried
to live as he would wish to die, that he might be able to
sing in death--"Looking unto Jesus." What an end! He can now
shout, "Victory, victory through the blood of the Lamb."
There will be no sorrow there, no more pain, no more tears,
but one continual song of praise unto Him who has done all
things well. Again, remember, dear mother, in your
bereavement, what a family of us have gone before, leaving
behind them the record that they were on the Lord's side:
Grandfathers on both sides, grandmothers on both sides,
uncles on both sides, aunts on both sides, my eight little
ones; and now our beloved father has gone to tune his harp,
and to sing for ever of redeeming love. Do not fret, dear
mother; we shall meet again, and be able to sing when time
shall be no more. Keep up your spirits. Again, do not be
uneasy about money; we are not short of a few pounds, and as
long as I live you shall never want for anything that will
help to make the remainder of your days comfortable, so
please rest contented on that score. I enclose a draft on
Gurney's Bank, that will, I think, put all straight, set the
doctors smiling, and leave a good shot in the locker to make
all things comfortable. I should like to have some of poor
father's books; do not sell one. I should advise you to go
and live with Sarah; she could look after your comfort until
I return. If I am spared we will then take you, and do all
we can for your comfort. As for the furniture, sell it, but
do not let the broker rob you. Give it to the poor rather
than be imposed upon; and take the best of the things,
including the books, to S----h. My wife will write you next
mail. I want her to go home, take the children with her, and
look after you. But, no; she likes mother very much, but the
loadstone is at this end. Now, my dear mother, try and keep
your spirits up; looking to the Strong for strength and
guidance through this dark hour of trouble. Give my kind
regards to all kind friends.

And believe me, my dear Mother,
Your affectionate Son,
T. GOWING, Sergeant-Major,
Allahabad Garrison.

Fort Allahabad, 5th April, 1876.

My Dear, Dear Mother,

In answer to yours, just to hand, I drop a line. This, I
hope, will be the last letter from the land of pestilence,
blacks, and bugs. I have had quite enough of it, and so has
my partner. I have found the last three or four summers very
oppressive. Remember, I have had eighteen summers on these
burning plains; quite enough, one would think, to get used
to the excessive heat, or to get acclimatized, as people
call it. But I begin to find that the climate is playing old
hack with me, and the sooner I have a change the better.
Although I have kept to my post throughout, I have continued
for many summers to send my best half up to the hills with
ladies, or at my own expense. Remember, dear mother, I have
served the State for upwards of twenty-two years. I have
more than completed my portion of the contract, and have
tried to do my duty on many a hard-fought field, both in the
Crimea and out here; and if spared a few months more, we
will see what the Government will give me. They must give me
the pension of my rank, viz., the large sum of 2s. 6d. per
diem. I see by the papers there is some talk of increasing
the rate of pensions for all ranks. I hope to be home some
time next month, all being well. The doctor's words have
come true about my poor wife--that she would never be the
same woman again after the attack of cholera. I almost long
to come home. It will be nearly nineteen years since I left
England; and what an eventful time of it I have had--death
all around me, from water, famine, pestilence, shot, shell,
grape, sword, musketry, and the assassin's dagger; yet I
have passed through it all. Truly I have much to be thankful
for. My life of forty-two years (to-day) has been, I must
acknowledge, watched over by an all-wise God, who can see
from the beginning to the end. Mother dear, that is nothing
more than I expected. Some of my letters out here have been
little newspapers. It is no new thing: there is a class of
people in this world that like to pry into other people's
business. I am sorry that you have lost some of my letters,
but do not let that trouble you. I thought they might come
in handy for some of my children, just to let them see a
little what their father had gone through. There are many
things that I have omitted in my diary; and again, I have
neglected it of late years.

And, dear mother, in order to have something nice when we
arrive, please to accept the enclosed cheque for £--. Will
drop a line from Bombay, if possible, and another as soon as
we land. And, as I have escaped thus far, I hope the same
powerful hand and watchful eye that has attended me and
mine, will guide us safe to the land of liberty; and then,
dear mother, we will sing--

Home, sweet home!
I love thee still.

I am only bringing home two of my children--Arthur and Amy.
Keep up your spirits, dear mother. We will meet again, all
being well. Till then,

Believe us as ever,
Your affectionate Son and Daughter,
T. & B. J. GOWING, S.M.,
Allahabad.

The following will, I hope, be of much interest to my
readers. They will be able to see at a glance the dates and
principal places at which our unfortunate countrywomen and
children were massacred; and the table shows moreover the
distances our men had to march from Bombay and Calcutta
respectively:--

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A Soldier's Experience; or, A Voice from the RanksChapter VIII (5)

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