by John Keay
According to Fergusson, the first visitor actually to see the statue was Wellesley. But Buchanan seems to make Wellesley’s visit later than that of Colin Mackenzie, the man in charge of the Mysore Survey and the future Surveyor-General of India. Mackenzie was certainly the first to measure it (fifty-seven feet, not seventy), and there is a famous portrait of him, by Thomas Hickey, in which the Sravana Belgola statue, alongside a ‘pole and basket’ survey marker, is shown in the background.
Mackenzie, like Buchanan, was a Scot of wide interests and exceptional ability. The son of the first postmaster at Stornoway in the Outer Hebrides, he served the first ten years of his career as the local customs officer. But he was also a brilliant mathematician and, while collaborating on a life of John Napier (the inventor of logarithms), he became fascinated by the mathematical discoveries of the ancient Hindus. With that extraordinary resolve which 200 years ago seems to have been quite taken for granted, he left forever the windswept scapes of Lewis and, with no certainty of either a passage or employment, set off for India in search of the Hindu system of logarithms. It was 1783 and Mackenzie was twenty-eight, somewhat late to be starting an Indian career.
In Madras he was gazetted as an Ensign of Infantry but he soon transferred to the Engineers and made his first survey in 1784. Opportunities for distinction as both a siege engineer and surveyor then came thick and fast. He served during the Third Mysore War (1790–92), was present at the siege of Pondicherry in 1793, and served with the Nizam of Hyderabad’s troops in 1795 and at the siege of Colombo in 1796. There followed more surveying in Hyderabad territory, during which he prepared a detailed study of the famous diamond mines. He also reported on a remarkable temple that he had discovered at ‘Perwuttum’ on the Kistna river.
In 1798, the Fourth and last Mysore War saw his prompt recall from survey duty. As chief engineer with the Nizam’s forces, he fought alongside Arthur Wellesley. He was the only man with Wellesley during the famous episode when the future Duke became separated from his men during a night advance. This incident was widely regarded as a blemish on Wellesley’s prospects. Revealingly, a contemporary rejected any such heresy on the grounds that ‘any imputation of deficiency of courage [on Wellesley’s part] must equally have applied to Colonel Mackenzie whose bravery and sangfroid in action are proverbial’. Wellesley himself regarded Mackenzie as indispensable. ‘I shall say nothing of Mackenzie’s merits as a surveyor; his works are a strong proof of them. He was under my command during the campaign and I never saw a more zealous, a more diligent, or a more useful officer.’ Mackenzie played a vital role in the final siege of Tipu’s capital, and immediately after the war was appointed to take charge of the survey of Mysore.
The Mysore Survey was India’s first large-scale topographical survey. It covered some 40,000 square miles and took nine years to complete. The methods devised by Mackenzie, and the organization and training of his staff, became standard procedures for the extension of the survey to the whole of India. Its success proved that such an ambitious scheme was well within the realms of possibility. Starting on the northernmost frontiers of the state, Mackenzie and his staff covered the whole country with a network of carefully determined positions; from these, individual survey parties carried out minor triangulations and then toured the ground, fitting in roads, rivers and all the other human and physical features that go to making up a map. For months on end, these small detachments would disappear into the mountains and jungles. ‘Fever and ague’ might prostrate the whole team, and the rains would pen them within their tents for weeks on end. But the work went on; the reports and survey sheets accumulated. Mackenzie himself was in the field for up to two years at a time; but, as completion drew near, he increasingly immersed himself in the preparation of the final maps, plus a memoir, in seven folio volumes, on the conduct and results of the survey.
This memoir – and indeed, the whole Mysore Survey – was remarkable for the information collected on non-geographical subjects. Unlike Buchanan, Mackenzie was no naturalist; and the botanist attached to the Survey failed to stay the course. But in the report on the ‘Perwuttum Pagoda’ Mackenzie had already shown a deep and sympathetic interest in Indian antiquities and history. Three years later, he discovered the remains of the Amaravati stupa, the most important Buddhist monument in south India. And at about the same time, he secured the services of a Brahmin, Kavali Venkata Boriah, through whose learning Mackenzie believed that ‘a new avenue to Hindu knowledge was opened’. Throughout the period of the Mysore Survey, Mackenzie not only directed the operations of his survey parties, but, through Boriah, also a network of antiquarian scouts. Scouring the country in search of inscriptions, historical records, coins and architectural curiosities – for all of which Mackenzie paid from his own pocket – their activities covered the whole of peninsular India. Later they were extended to Java, where Mackenzie was employed from 1811–13, and to Bihar and Bengal, when he became Surveyor-General in 1815.
The Mackenzie collection was far and away the largest and most important hoard of historical materials amassed during the nineteenth century. It included 1568 manuscripts in various scripts and languages, 8076 inscriptions, 6218 coins, 3000 engraved copper plates recording land tenures, and 2630 drawings of sculptures and monuments. What this means in terms of shelf space can best be gauged from the 8000 volumes in the Madras Library – only a fraction of the total, much of which found its way to Calcutta and London.
No man, even with a university of Brahmins at his elbow, could hope to translate and digest all this material; it would be 1828 before the bulk of it had even been catalogued. But for once the government was far from blind to its importance. Even Lord Bentinck, no great respector of Indian antiquities, was filled with admiration.
His [Mackenzie’s] ardour, perseverance and contempt of all climate and danger in pursuit of this object have been quite extraordinary. No man that ever was in India has had the same opportunity, has incurred the same expense, or devoted the same time to these investigations. If it is possible & to clear away the impenetrable darkness with which this Indian system, its origin and its progress, has been involved, the efforts of Colonel Mackenzie promise the finest hopes of success.
In old age, Mackenzie became something of an institution, like Cunningham fifty years later. Bemused by his dedication, the government continued to endorse his researches. No one could fault his management of the Indian surveys or criticize his eminence as one of India’s outstanding geographers. Yet increasingly he immersed himself in his antiquarian studies. In an historical sketch of south India’s history during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, he made a rare attempt to interpret some of his materials. He had also written, in 1797, a notable account of the Jains, on the basis of which he is sometimes credited with the discovery of this important faith. But basically his object was to collect and preserve. He firmly believed that all the materials for a history of pre-Islamic India still existed. But they were scattered about, forgotten and unread. They must quickly be discovered and recorded before the inscriptions were erased by time and the manuscripts destroyed out of ignorance. During the 1820s, James Tod in western India and Brian Hodgson in Nepal would subscribe to exactly the same belief and religiously follow Mackenzie’s example. Stimulated by the sums paid to Mackenzie for his collection – his executors received £15,000 from the East India Company for the bulk of it – travellers throughout India and beyond took a new interest in antiquities; the spate of coin collecting and inscription copying in the 1830s, which resulted in the reconstruction of India’s classical past, can be attributed as much to Mackenzie’s example as to Prinsep’s exhortations.
The year 1800, which saw Buchanan embarking on his route survey and Mackenzie launching the first major topographical survey, saw yet a third party of surveyors heading out of Madras for the rolling uplands of Mysore. In charge was William Lambton, a Yorkshireman of uncertain, probably humble, origins who had delayed his Indian debut even longer than Mackenzie. He had
now been just two years in India and, though holding only the rank of lieutenant, was already in his mid-forties. Somehow the military establishment had forgotten about William Lambton. As a barrack-master he had whiled away the previous thirteen years in the backwaters of eastern Canada. While Mackenzie had been studying logarithms in Stornoway, Lambton had been teaching himself geodesy and astronomy in New Brunswick. And there, no doubt, he would have stayed. But there came a scrutiny of the regimental records and then a summons. By now his regiment had moved to India, was commanded by Wellesley, and about to see stirring action in Mysore. Lambton was needed.
He went first to Calcutta and announced his presence by delivering a paper to the Asiatic Society on The Theory of Walls (‘wherein some particulars are investigated which have not been considered by writers on fortifications’); this was closely followed by another on The Effect of Machines When in Motion. Wellesley, understandably, was not sure what to make of either the man or his achievements. But during the Mysore War he became impressed by both and, when Lambton confided in him the great scheme that was forming in his mind, Wellesley became one of his most ardent supporters. The scheme in question was for a trigonometrical survey stretching right across the Indian peninsula and capable of being continued ‘to an almost unlimited extent in every other direction’.
It is scarcely necessary to say [wrote Lambton] what the advantage will be of ascertaining the great geographical features upon correct mathematical principles; for then, after surveys of different districts have been made in the usual mode, they can be combined in one general map.
In other words a trigonometrical survey would provide an extremely accurate framework within which topographical and route surveys, like those of Mackenzie and Buchanan, could be fitted. The principle had already been established in Britain by General Roy’s Ordnance Survey, which no doubt gave Lambton the idea. While the topographical surveyor must carefully sketch and measure every inch of the ground, the trigonometrical surveyor leaps across the countryside from one eminence to the next. Extreme accuracy was of the essence: the stations he established would become the pole stars of all future topographical surveys. Though comparatively few surveyors would be needed, the instruments required were complex and cumbersome. Factors such as the curvature of the earth had to be taken into account, and it was one of Lambton’s great ambitions to establish precisely what this amounted to in a latitude such as India’s. The scheme therefore had both practical and scientific implications, both of which recommended themselves to Mackenzie as the Madras Surveyor-General.
But in the enthusiastic support that Lambton received from Wellesley and the Governor-General, there must also have lurked a political consideration. The trigonometrical survey was of no immediate military or strategic relevance, was not essential for the purposes of revenue assessment and was unlikely to lead to the discovery of useful plants, interesting buildings, etc. Unlike all the other surveyors, Lambton would not be sidetracked onto matters other than his triangles.
But what the trigonometrical survey did do was embrace the whole of India. In its adoption lay the seed of an idea that would soon translate itself into the reality of an all-Indian empire; and in its completion would lie the important acknowledgement of India’s physical integrity. Just as Ashoka had staked out his empire with pillars and stone-cut inscriptions, so the British would stake out their own claim with trig stations and the maps that resulted.
Between 1800 and 1802, Lambton carried out what amounted to a practice exercise around Bangalore. Trigonometrical surveys started with measuring, along the ground, a base line using a specially wrought chain, levelled and stretched to give absolute accuracy. The chain, along with all the other instruments used by Lambton, had been bought secondhand from a Dr Dinwiddie in Calcutta. They would have been in Peking but for a lucky coincidence: the Chinese had not regarded chains, and what looked like other instruments of torture, as suitable presents for His Celestial Majesty. Dinwiddie was therefore escorting them back to England via India, and only too happy to be relieved of his charge.
Outside Bangalore, a suitably level piece of ground was selected and operations began. The chain, of blistered steel, was 100 feet long. To ensure that it was taut, level and not subject to extremes of temperature, it was housed in five long wooden coffers, each twenty feet long. These in turn were supported on tripods equipped with elevating screws for levelling; the coffers were also equipped with thermometers, as temperature was an important factor in any expansion of the chain.
The base line in this case was 7.44 miles long, so the chain, coffers and tripods had to be dismantled and re-erected nearly 500 times. This was done by a carefully drilled squad, twenty men to the chain, more to the coffers, acting on the word of command. The whole operation took fifty-seven days. Flooding, possibly contrived by the locals, interfered; but Lambton was confident that ‘no error exceeding eight or ten inches’ over the whole distance was possible. Then came a series of astronomical observations to establish the latitude at each end of the base line. For this an instrument called a zenith sector was required; the one bought from Dinwiddie was held in two large coffins which it took fourteen men to carry.
Finally, the base line measured and its position determined, triangulation could begin. A suitable hill was selected, a pole was erected on top of it and, using a theodolite, the angle between the base line and a line to the hill was measured at each end of the base line. Knowing, now, the length of the base and the two angles, the length of the other two sides could be worked out and the position of the hill minutely ascertained. One of the lines to it then became the base for the next triangle. And so on. The survey could at last stride off across the country. From time to time it was essential to check for accuracy by measuring another base line and by taking further observations. But, theoretically, so long as the original base was precisely measured, and the necessary allowances made for variations of altitude, the curvature of the earth, and refraction, the deviation should never exceed a few inches.
Although the base lines and triangles measured in 1800–2 were only a practice run, the principles and procedures remained the same throughout what became known as the Great Trigonometrical Survey (GTS). There were difficulties – the lack of suitable hills in the plains, for instance. And there were refinements – flashing lights instead of poles, for one. But Lambton’s scheme based on ‘correct mathematical principles’ did indeed prove capable of being continued ‘to an almost unlimited extent’.
In 1802, provided with new instruments from England, including the Great Theodolite weighing exactly half a ton, Lambton started his coast-to-coast series. He measured a base line above the beach in Madras and from this extended triangles up and down the coast to measure a short arc of the meridian which would give him the curvature of the earth in that latitude. Then, in 1803, he headed west, reaching the Malabar coast near Mangalore two years later. His measurements showed the peninsula to be 360 miles wide at this point, forty less than current maps showed.
In 1807, he started south to extend his triangles to Cape Comorin so as ‘to form a complete skeleton of the peninsula’. He tried going down the coast, but at Nagore, south of Pondicherry, ran into difficulties.
The work was here brought to a standstill owing to the height and the thick growth of the palm trees which everywhere obscured the view. The difficult and dangerous method was adopted of building scaffolds on top of the highest pagodas [temples] and of hoisting the heavy apparatus up by machinery constructed for the purpose, but without success; no stations whatever could be found with the necessary visibility and it was with some difficulty that the pagoda at Nagore was laid down.
He decided to move inland and, using more temples, reached Tanjore. Here this ‘difficult and dangerous method’ resulted in disaster, and the whole GTS was placed in jeopardy. The great tower of the Tanjore temple, 216 feet high, had proved irresistible; but in winching the half-ton theodolite to its summit, the guy rope used to keep it clear of the stru
cture snapped; the theodolite crashed against the tower. Any damage to the temple Lambton does not record; he was far too concerned about his instrument.
The blow was received on the tangent screw and its clamp. The case, being insufficient to protect it was broken, and the limb, instead of being a beautiful circle, was so distorted as to render it to all appearances worthless.
It looked as if operations would have to be suspended indefinitely. Lambton retired to the nearest ordnance depot and shut himself away in his tent with his beloved theodolite. No one, except a couple of assistants, was allowed to enter.
He then took the instrument entirely to pieces [writes his successor] and, having cut out of a large flat plank a circle of the exact size that he wanted, he gradually, by means of wedges and screws and pulleys, drew the limb out so as to fit into the circumference; and thus in the course of six weeks he had brought it back nearly to its original form. The radii, which had been bent, were restored to the proper shape and length by beating them with small wooden hammers.
The work could begin again. By 1810 Lambton had finished his triangulation of the southern tip and returned to his original coast-to-coast series to extend it northwards. He was now approaching sixty, and increasingly left the triangulation to his assistants, concentrating his own flagging energies on new base lines and calculations. But, reliable as his assistants were, there was as yet no one who could be considered as his natural successor. ‘Someone possessing zeal, constitution and attainments’ was desperately needed.
In 1818 the government rose to the occasion by nominating George Everest, a young artillery officer with an outstanding aptitude for mathematics and a good surveying record. At about the same time, the Survey reached Hyderabad territory and was transferred from the Madras government to the Supreme government in Calcutta. It was officially designated as the Great Trigonometrical Survey, and its extension to the whole of India right up to the Himalayas was sanctioned. The future was assured. But Lambton, now a Colonel, was slowing up. ‘Men cannot last forever’, observed Everest in 1822, ‘the Colonel’s infirmities have evidently subdued all but his spirit.’
